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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25339486">On the Deficiencies of Translation Spells</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilaDiurne/pseuds/LilaDiurne'>LilaDiurne</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Bad Translations, Beauxbatons, Bisexual Harry Potter, Cross-Generation Relationship, Divorce, French, Getting Together, HP Cross Gen Fest 2020, Happy Ending, Insomnia, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Theory, Not Epilogue Compliant, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Pining, Post-War, Professor Harry, Severus Snape Lives, Sexual Content, Translation Spells, Unrequited Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:48:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>41,135</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25339486</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilaDiurne/pseuds/LilaDiurne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Divorced, single, and free, Harry lives a completely unapologetic life in Paris. Between casual hook-ups and an easy, comfortable job, he likes to think he is as close to happiness as he'll ever be. And when he gets offered a teaching job at the prestigious Académie Beauxbâtons, he thinks he may have found exactly what was missing. But Harry is thoroughly unprepared for what he finds there - a familiar face that's been haunting his dreams for six years.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Potter/Original Character(s), Harry Potter/Severus Snape</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>158</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>799</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>HP Cross Gen Fest 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>On the Deficiencies of Translation Spells</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/JocundaSykes/gifts">JocundaSykes</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for HP Cross Gen Fest 2020<br/>Based on prompt S54 by JocundaSykes: Harry escapes to Paris after his divorce. He makes a new life for himself after accepting the Defence post at Beauxbâtons. Imagine his surprise when he learns that Snape will be his colleague.</p>
<p>Note: Any strangeness or inconsistencies in dialogue are normal failings of the translation spell Harry uses.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p>
<p>(art by the wonderful JocundaSykes)</p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>On the Deficiencies of Translation Spells</strong>
</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>- 1 -</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>wandering</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The bloke’s name is Florient, and he is <em>so</em> French Harry almost snorts when he introduces himself. He has unconventionally large eyebrows and a strange little moustache that Harry tries very hard not to stare at fixedly. He is dressed in a crisp white shirt, but he wears his trousers with the legs tucked into his socks – so they don’t catch into his bicycle chain, he explains when Harry frowns at the sight.</p>
<p>He was born and raised in Paris, in an overly large apartment in the 11ᵉ arrondissement and he studied Art History at the Sorbonne. Now he works part time as a guide at the Louvre, but he doesn’t really need the work, he explains with a lazy shrug in between two sips of his <em>café crème</em>. He only does it because he’s passionate. Oh, and he’s been writing a book about his memoirs. There isn’t a lot happening, but it’s <em>very</em> introspective, he assures Harry. Oh, and he’s also… Well, Harry doesn’t know much else about him. He’s turned off the translation spell twenty minutes ago. He just smiles and nods now, throwing in a raised eyebrow or humming in approval every now and then.</p>
<p>He’s going to <em>kill</em> Clémence for setting him up with this bloke. She must be pissing herself with laughter right now. One last horrible joke before he leaves next week, as payback for having to find herself a new flatmate at the last minute, surely. A glance at his watch tells him he’s been here for nearly an hour. What a bloody fucking waste of time.</p>
<p>“<em>Mais tu sais, l’important c’est le message, c’est le sentiment qu’on ressent quand on voit la toile. Tu crois pas?</em>”</p>
<p>He’s looking at Harry expectantly now, but Harry hasn’t been paying attention in the slightest. And even if he had been, even with the few basic notions of French he’s managed to develop, there’s no way he would be able to understand this bloke. He speaks so fucking fast Harry’s mind doesn’t even have time to catch the words.</p>
<p>Harry takes a pensive sort of air, and after a long moment, nods thoughtfully. “<em>Ouais, je pense</em>,” he risks, rapidly fishing into his bank of readymade, perfectly pronounced answers.</p>
<p>“<em>Alors du coup, je leur ai expliqué que ce que Manet voulait dire, sa vraie de vraie intention, c’était pas nécessairement de faire une critique de la société</em>…”</p>
<p>Harry doesn’t spend too long trying to understand. Something about a critique of society. And Manet is a painter, isn’t he? There are two of them, Monet and Manet. Harry can never tell them apart. One paints misty landscapes with lots of lily pads, and the other portraits of ladies in fancy hats. There’s an old French song playing in the café, and he decides to listen to that instead.</p>
<p>
  <em>Il suffirait de presque rien, peut-être dix années de moins, pour que je te dise je t’aime…</em>
</p>
<p>Oh, he <em>knows</em> this one, he realises, he’s heard it before – Clémence just <em>loves</em> that sort of cheesy music – and he smiles triumphantly despite himself. Florient smiles back, probably thinking that Harry is reacting to something he said, and Harry must admit that he doesn’t look so bad when he smiles – much less of a snobbish prick. Harry smiles at him wider to test this theory, and this time Florient laughs before looking away, nearly blushing. Not too bad at all, Harry decides. Maybe this isn’t such a waste of time after all.</p>
<p>If anyone had told Harry, on that day when he sat down with Ginny to talk about divorce, that three years later he would end up in Paris, stuck on a boring date with a pretentious Muggle, he would have laughed himself silly.</p>
<p>When Ginny told him that she was in love but that it wasn’t with <em>him</em>, he hadn’t been angry like most men would have been. He had been relieved. And when she told him she knew <em>he</em> wasn’t in love with her either, and that they both deserved better than to spend their life pretending they were made for each other simply because everyone else seemed to think they were, Harry had felt like a weight was lifted from his shoulders. They had both determined that what they’d had was a fling brought on by the urgency of war, and that they’d married only because it was what had been expected of them next. They were both so young still, and life was so short. Too short to waste away like this. And so, three days after their two-year anniversary, they headed to the Ministry together and signed the divorce papers.</p>
<p>And here Harry is now. Divorced, single, and free, living in the most beautiful city in the world. A city where, incidentally, hardly anyone knows who he is. In Paris, Harry can be whoever he wants to be, do whatever he wants to do. He can drink wine in the middle of the afternoon, he can laze about in cafés and bookshops and museums. He can fuck whoever he wants or let whoever he wants fuck him. At twenty-four years old, Harry is the closest to happiness he has ever been. It’s been a long time coming, and he intends to fully enjoy it. Now, if this bloke could only shut up…</p>
<p>Harry discreetly taps the thin silver bracelet on his arm, turning the translation spell back on. “Can we go back to your place?” he asks, interrupting the doubtless boring tirade his date is still caught into.</p>
<p>Florient pauses, his eyes widening, hesitant. “Are you sure? I just felt like you were looking for a way to get out.”</p>
<p>Harry shrugs. “Well, to be honest with you, Florient–”</p>
<p>“Florent.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“It’s <em>Florent</em> my name, not Florient,” the bloke corrects.</p>
<p>Harry frowns. “Oh… really? Well, to be honest with you, <em>Florent</em>, you’re not my type. But I don’t see why we can’t have fun anyway. If you’re up for it, of course.”</p>
<p>Florent’s eyes widen even more, almost comically, and it’s obvious he’s doing all he can to keep his composure. “Yeah… okay,” he finally says with a lazy shrug. “Okay. We can go to my place. Yeah, no problem. I don’t live very far.”</p>
<p>“Good, because I’m not getting on your bike. We’re walking,” Harry concludes, already standing up. He rummages through his pocket and leaves enough money on the table to pay for both their drinks.</p>
<p>Florent nearly runs after him as he heads for the door. “By the way, no need to see me,” he adds.</p>
<p>Harry pauses. “What?” He thinks this over, wondering what the translation spell has missed now.</p>
<p>“No need to see me,” Florent insists. “You don’t have to be so formal.”</p>
<p>Harry represses a groan. Of course, the formal you again. <em>Vouvoyer</em>, the verb is, and completely untranslatable into English, as far as he knows. He’s been told the spell tends to fluctuate between the formal and the informal when he speaks, and there doesn’t seem to be a way to control it. His friends have stopped commenting on it by now, used to him relying on the spell all the time. Bloody hell… If even magic can’t comprehend the rules, no wonder Harry still doesn’t understand them. The whole concept gives him a headache. That and the bloody masculine and feminine nouns.</p>
<p>“Yeah, okay,” he says with a shrug as they emerge out into the tiny Parisian alley.</p>
<p>Florent leaves his bicycle where he’s locked it around a lamppost, claiming he’ll come get it later, and they walk side by side down the street. The café where they met is in Le Marais, a very lovely neighbourhood in which Harry realises he hasn’t spent nearly enough time. He looks around as he walks, taking in the sights and the sounds and the smells, trying to fix everything in his memory.</p>
<p>Paris is beautiful in August. To be fair, in Harry’s opinion, every day of every month is beautiful here. He loves this city almost the same way one would a lover, with all its beauty and its imperfections. He loves the strangers who inhabit it and give it life. He even loves the rudeness of Parisians. How they drive like madmen, how they curse, how they think they’re better than everyone else. He even loves how they look at him with disdain when his bloody translation spell messes up. But more than anything, he loves being one amongst all of them. He loves seeing them and knowing that they see only a stranger when they look at him.</p>
<p>“It’s nice, this neighbourhood,” he comments, following Florent into a side street.</p>
<p>Florent nods, fumbling for his keys. He looks nervous, which makes Harry realise he probably doesn’t do this kind of thing often, bringing strangers home. Oh Merlin, please don’t let him act like a blushing virgin when they fall into bed. He would much rather deal with the snobbish, overconfident arse from before.</p>
<p>“Where do you live already, Clémence and you?” Florent asks, unlocking the door and then opening it for him.</p>
<p>“Oh, somewhere in Montmartre,” Harry says shortly. “It’s a little hard to find.”</p>
<p>Florent’s apartment is on the third floor. It’s quite big and very white – much nicer than Harry’s. There are lots of plants and a wide balcony overlooking the busy main street. It must cost a fortune, but he wasn’t expecting anything less from someone like this bloke. His father must pay the bills. You don’t afford this sort of place by working part time at a museum.</p>
<p>“You live alone?” Harry asks, peering into the rooms along the hallway while Florent wanders into what must be the kitchen.</p>
<p>“Yeah, nobody is going to bother us. Are you thirsty?”</p>
<p>Harry doesn’t answer. He’s found the bedroom and is busy looking through the books on the shelves. <em>If you meet someone and they don’t have good books, don’t fuck them</em>, Aurélie had told him once. She had been joking, of course, but although Harry certainly <em>could</em> be more selective, he has found these are good enough words to live by. There are lots of authors he doesn’t know here. And lots of poetry, too. There’s Russian literature – Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. And Bulgakov. Harry grins, touching the spine – he loves this one. There’s possibly every novel Balzac has ever written. And Proust, of course. Good enough, he decides.</p>
<p>By the time Florent joins him, holding two glasses of sparkling water, Harry’s already removed his t-shirt. Thank Merlin, Florent only looks surprised for a second before he grins and puts the glasses down.</p>
<p>“You don’t waste time, say so?” he says, undoing his trousers.</p>
<p>Harry raises an eyebrow at the odd translation, but he doesn’t question the spell this time. “I don’t waste time,” he repeats, grinning back, and launches for a kiss.</p>
<p>Florent might be one of the worst dates he’s ever been on, but he’s far from bad in bed, Harry will give him that. He has a good-sized cock, and he sure knows how to use it. He fucks Harry long and hard, pressing messy kisses to his neck and shoulders while Harry grips tightly onto the headboard. They must be loud too, because someone clearly catcalls, either from outside or from the hallway, it’s hard to tell. The only negative is that, as in the café earlier, Florent can’t seem to stop talking during sex either.</p>
<p>“Ah yeah… Oh shit… It’s too good… Damn… Oh shit!!!”</p>
<p>Harry is just about to snap at him to stop talking but is interrupted by his own moan when Florent’s cock hits his prostate dead on.</p>
<p>“Ah yeah… You like that?” Florent gasps into his ear.     </p>
<p>“Fuck…” Harry whimpers despite himself, thrusting back into him.</p>
<p>The bloke has some stamina too. It goes on for a while, and then he’s kind enough to bring Harry off, stroking him hard and fast. And he comes sucking on Harry’s earlobe, sending delightful tingles down his spine. Yeah, totally not the waste of time this date could have been.</p>
<p>Florent is the cuddling type, and since Harry is out of breath, he lets himself be held for a little while before wriggling free.</p>
<p>“I think you’re the best fuck I ever had,” Florent remarks after discarding the used condom, watching Harry clean himself with a corner of the sheets.</p>
<p>Harry smirks. “Yeah? You weren’t too bad yourself.”</p>
<p>He’s just about to leave the bed when Florent catches his arm, pulls him back so he’s sitting on the edge of the mattress and presses a kiss to his shoulder blade. “Look, Harry…” he begins, and Harry almost groans because he knows <em>exactly</em> where this is going. “I know you said I’m not your type but… Shit,” he huffs in a short sigh. “I would like to see you again.”</p>
<p>As annoyed as he is, Harry looks back at him softly. “I’m sorry if I gave you any ideas by coming here,” he says, looking Florent straight in the eyes. “But I don’t do this… relationship thing.”</p>
<p>“I’m not talking about a relationship–”</p>
<p>“I know, I know,” Harry interrupts, pushing a strand of sweaty hair from Florent’s forehead. “But that’s how it starts, isn’t it? At first, it’s all just fun, but it always grows into something more. Something complicated. My life has been very complicated for a long time,” he says softly. “I want simple things now, easy things. And trust me, you don’t want me in your life–”</p>
<p>“Can I judge for myself maybe?”</p>
<p>Harry shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you what you want. This was great, but it ends here.”</p>
<p>Florent looks at him closely for a time, then he nods and presses his lips to Harry’s softly in a parting kiss. “Too bad,” he says afterwards, with a small shrug. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”</p>
<p>Harry snorts. “Since we won’t see each other again, can I give you some advice?”</p>
<p>Florent lifts one of his impressive eyebrows in amusement, then he nods.</p>
<p>“Stop talking sometimes and learn to listen. You’re clearly a smart bloke, but you shouldn’t brag so much. You give a shit first impression. And shave your moustache. It’s weird and you would look better without it.”</p>
<p>To Harry’s surprise, Florent laughs, openly and loudly. This is probably the most honest he’s been since they’ve met. He kisses Harry’s shoulder again and says, with a grin, “I’ll gladly shave it for you, if you stay.”</p>
<p>Harry shakes his head, exasperated but smiling. “You’d be miserable with me, believe me. I’m leaving next week anyway,” he announces as he stands and starts collecting his clothes from the floor. “I got a job in the Pyrénées.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” Florent leans back against the headboard, watching appreciatively as Harry gets dressed. “What kind of job?”</p>
<p>Harry grins saying it, “Teaching.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Harry had been in Paris for approximately a year and a half, burning through his savings and doing nothing productive with his days whatsoever, when it occurred to him that maybe he should try and get a job. Clémence was absolutely rejoiced to hear this. She had always been open about how annoying it was to her that he should just feel it appropriate to breeze through life like this with no effort. And <em>no</em>, in her opinion, having fought in a war and saved the wizarding world did <em>not</em> mean he shouldn’t at least try to earn an honest living, just like everybody else. All their friends had jobs, and if Harry had one too, then he would be able to contribute whenever they complained about work, she joked. It wasn’t fair that they should all be miserable while he was having the time of his life.</p>
<p>Ever since his arrival in Paris, letters had been pouring in from the French Ministry of Magic. He must have received a job offer from every single department, but all of them were promptly declined or ignored entirely, and when he finally decided to look for work, he started by consulting the papers. He wanted to find something easy and simple. Something in the Muggle world, maybe. Because <em>something</em> <em>simple</em> often implied working in a shop, and there was no thought more horrendous than that of the odd wizard recognising him while he restocked socks or undergarments.</p>
<p>As it turns out, he found what he was looking for completely by happenstance. In March of last year, Harry had been in pursuit of a particularly obscure book of magic which led him to a little shop tucked away in a side alley of Place Cachée. Oculus, it was called. One of his friends had praised it for its collection of rare books, and Harry had not been disappointed. He must have spent a good two hours browsing, letting out little gasps of delight at the wonderful things he found, and having to stop himself from buying everything that struck his fancy. It was while purchasing the much sought-after volume – Alfred Lichterloh’s <em>Alternative Methods in Wandless Magic</em> – that he noticed the handwritten sign over the old man’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“Are you hiring?” Harry had asked disbelievingly. It seemed too good to be true, but it was the beginning of over a year of absolute bliss.</p>
<p>Oculus also has an entrance in Muggle Paris, which means they serve all kinds of customers. On the Muggle side, you can find all sorts of trinkets pertaining to the occult: bogus crystal balls, books about palmistry, and a variety of sham talismans. But if you cross over through the beaded curtain into the wizarding side – which no Muggle would notice even exists – you are greeted by the wondrous sight of ancient tomes of the rarest kind, dusty scrolls, and strange artefacts. The old owner allows Harry to read as much as he wants, and even to take some of the books home, as long as he proves useful to the customers in the tracking and recommending of books and helps clean up the shop, which is in need of constant dusting. <em>This sort of arcane magic</em>, Cornélius will sometimes whisper in his scratchy, cryptic voice,<em> is something that fills the air. It is only natural that it should attract all sorts of</em> <em>mysterious smithereens</em>. God knows what he means by that exactly, but Harry is not one to contradict the man. Cornélius Bonnet is a hundred and twenty-eight years old, speaks nine modern languages and four dead ones, and has travelled around the world at least five times. He probably knows <em>all</em> there is to know about smithereens, mysterious or whatnot.</p>
<p>Harry would be happy working at Oculus for the rest of his life. It is quiet and uneventful work, but it allows him unrestricted access to a seemingly endless source of knowledge, and it has helped fuel his newfound passion for researching different forms of magic, alternate types of spellcasting, and the lesser-known components of magical theory. He would gladly spend years dusting shelves if it meant he could listen to Cornélius’ stories. But when Harry received yet another job offer – this time not directly from the Ministry, but from the prestigious Académie Beauxbâtons – the old man was the first to beg him to accept. As sad as he is to see Harry go, Cornélius insists that he doesn’t waste his youth with old tomes and old men and instead puts his brain and knowledge to good use. Harry has agreed to take the post on the one condition – a bold move but he thought he would at least give it a try – that they give him free rein on his curriculum. Surprisingly enough, the school offered him near absolute freedom. As long as the students are well-prepared for the official examinations, they said, he can teach any other material he wants. But they still insisted that he submit a model of his prospective syllabi for approval. As Harry rushed to complete the task before the deadline, he was grateful to have the old man as a source of advice.</p>
<p>“Good morning!” Harry calls out, kicking the door open with his foot and causing the old bell to slam noisily against the wood.</p>
<p>Cornélius winces at the racket, looking up from his spot behind the counter. He lifts a bushy, unimpressed eyebrow at the sight of the tower of books Harry is precariously carrying, before grudgingly coming to lend a hand.</p>
<p>“You would think,” he remarks in perfect English, reaching out to remove the top three volumes before they topple over, “that it might occur to an intelligent young man such as yourself to shrink those and not risk destroying my front door.”</p>
<p>“Sorry,” Harry grunts, dropping the rest of the books on the counter. “That’s the last of them. Except Faucheux’s fourth <em>Theories</em>. I kept that one. I’ll bring it back next summer, if that’s alright with you.”</p>
<p>Cornélius nods slowly, then his lips curl into a fond smile. “I <em>do</em> hope you’re not planning on corrupting those fresh young minds too badly. Though if someone could manage it, it’s probably you.”</p>
<p>Harry grins. “Not too badly, just enough. And my curriculum was <em>approved</em>, just to remind you!” he says proudly. “All of it! I didn’t even have to remove anything, not even Helmut. I only put him in there as a test to see how far I could go, but he got through. They’re more openminded than I expected.”</p>
<p>Cornélius shakes his head, still smiling. “It was approved because it was submitted by <em>you</em>, Harry,” he says, grabbing some more of the books and heading out into the dark rows of shelves to put them back in their respective spots. “If any other professor tried to implement Barkovsky or Faucheux or, by the heavens, <em>Helmut</em>, into Defensive Magic, the Ministry would be scandalised. Only Harry Potter could get away with it. I hope you realise what an opportunity this is. You could revolutionise the class.”</p>
<p>Harry shrugs. “I don’t mean to revolutionise anything, that’s not my intention. I just thought it would be interesting. I remember how boring some of those lessons were when I was in school. What’s the harm in knowing where the magic comes from?”</p>
<p>“There are many who think there is great harm in knowing such things,” Cornélius remarks, disappearing completely into the shadows of the shop. “People tend to be comfortable in their ignorance. And wizards especially, are prone to laziness – in their minds and their bodies. They cast the spells and never question this magic they use. That’s the difference between you and the rest of them, Harry. You love magic to its very essence, and you never take it for granted.”</p>
<p>“You can’t see it from over there, but I’m blushing,” Harry jokes, grabbing the rest of the books and heading after him through the rows. “I’ve given it some thought, and I think I might push a little more and try to get an introductory lesson on handcrafted spells for my NEWT-level classes, but I don’t want to get too greedy,” he adds hesitantly. “And I don’t want to step on Moreau’s toes either.”</p>
<p>“Professor Moreau hasn’t changed his curriculum in thirty years, Harry,” Cornélius’ voice says from the depths of the shop. “Perhaps it is time someone <em>steps on his toes</em>, as you say.” He chuckles deeply then, in this way that never fails to make Harry smile. “Handcrafted spells, you say. In Beauxbâtons. And you don’t mean to revolutionise anything, you say.” He snorts with disbelief before continuing, “You know, when I hired you, I expected to regret it. I expected a rash and impulsive young man who wouldn’t dare use his brain if he were imperiused to do so. But then again, you came in to buy Lichterloh, of all things, so maybe I should have known from the beginning.”</p>
<p>“I’m blushing again,” Harry informs him with a laugh, sliding Morell’s <em>Studies in Ancient Magicks</em> back into its long unoccupied spot. “Don’t give me too much credit, Cornélius. I am rash and impulsive in other ways.”</p>
<p>Cornélius clicks his tongue briefly, and Harry can imagine he’s shaking his head. “As I understood very well from the number of heartbroken young people who wander in here looking for you.”</p>
<p>Harry laughs in the darkness. “Are <em>you</em> judging me? How many times have you married again?”</p>
<p>“Quite the opposite, I think I rather envy you,” Cornélius says softly, though the smile can be heard in his voice. “I envy your youth and all the possibilities before you. And make no mistake, I understand why you would feel the need to wander, to be careless in your affections. With everything you have been through at such a young age, you finally feel allowed to experience life freely, for the first time. And you deserve to, Harry. But you <em>must</em> know there is more than that. People cannot be alone for long before their loneliness weighs them down, wears them down, starts to define them...”</p>
<p>Harry doesn’t reply, wandering deeper into the dimmest part of the shop, searching for the last book’s assigned place. It’s quiet for a time, and when Cornélius speaks again, his voice is closer, only a few rows away. Harry can see wisps of his crazy silver hair through the shelves.</p>
<p>“I have married six times,” the old man says in a low, soft tone, “but only one of those counted. You only really love once, Harry. And if you are unlucky enough to find this love when you’re young, and to lose it, then all the other loves afterwards are for nought. You keep looking, because that is what humans do, but you’re looking for something that is already gone, never to be found again. <em>Your</em> love is still out there. And when you find it, and you see it for what it is, you won’t need to wander anymore.”</p>
<p>Once again, Harry doesn’t reply. His heart is heavy now, and he wonders if Cornélius can tell and that’s why he has stopped talking when he usually would go on at length about the subject. Harry sighs shakily, tucks Guiying’s <em>Effective Techniques in Holistic Spellcasting</em> back into its respective niche and wipes both hands on his trousers, leaving smears of dust.</p>
<p><em>Your love is still out there</em>, the old man said.</p>
<p><em>But what if my love doesn’t want me?</em> Harry wants to ask. <em>What if I scared it away? What if it ran from me? What do I do then? What else is there to do but to wander?</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Harry fell in love, for the first and only time, when he was eighteen years old.</p>
<p>If asked how exactly it happened, he would be at a loss to explain it. It wasn’t there and then suddenly one day it was. Transparent as the carafe of water on the bedside table. As bright and odorant as the flowers he brought every Thursday.</p>
<p>It was on a Thursday, in fact, that he realised it. A perfectly fine August morning, three months after the end of the war. He had picked dahlias that week – blood red, so dark the centre of them was nearly black. But more than their colour, Harry had been fascinated by the shape of the petals and the way they grew together. A perfect Fibonacci sequence, he would later learn. The divine proportion, each number equal to the sum of the preceding two.</p>
<p>Snape had wrinkled his nose at them, watching quietly as Harry positioned the vase in a ray of sunlight, before declaring, “Couldn’t find anything more ostentatious, could you, Potter?”</p>
<p>Harry grinned, moving the biggest flower around to the front of the bouquet. “I knew as soon as I saw them in the shop that I <em>had</em> to get them,” he explained, once again ignoring the man’s sneering tone. “Don’t you think they look sort of moody? Like they could attack you and suck your blood, or something. Reminded me of you.”</p>
<p>The deep, throaty chuckle that erupted behind him was so unexpected Harry froze when he heard it. He almost thought he was imagining it, but when he turned from the dahlias, it was to see Snape laughing. And though the act was so hindered by the wound and the bandages that it quickly turned into a sort of breathless wheeze, the man’s whole face was transformed by it. Foreign lines appeared around his mouth and his black eyes shone with mirth in a way Harry had never witnessed before. As he watched the man laugh, however, he felt his own grin slip from his face, because <em>that</em> was the moment. <em>That’s</em> when he knew he was in love with Severus Snape. And that’s also when he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that nothing good could come of it.</p>
<p>The notion itself was absurd, of course, even more so because up until then, Harry thought he was in love with Ginny. He was convinced of it, had never doubted it for a second. He enjoyed spending time with her, enjoyed kissing her. They’d had sex many times and it was always enjoyable. That’s what love was, wasn’t it? They were good together, <em>everyone</em> said so. They shared a passion for Quidditch. She was smart and fierce. And she loved him. Harry wanted to be loved. But the more he looked at Snape laughing that day, the more it occurred to him that seeing Ginny laugh had never made his stomach flutter or his heart beat any faster. Not like this.</p>
<p>“You never buy <em>me</em> flowers,” she had remarked once, amused, when he told her he needed to stop at the florist for Snape. Harry laughed without realising she had a point. Snape never asked, never said thank you, always sneered and mocked them, and yet, it never occurred to Harry to stop bringing the flowers. Because Hogwarts was empty in the summer and no one else visited. Because the room was large and too white and could use a burst of colour. Because Madam Pomfrey once told him that Snape, although he never failed to make fun of Harry whenever he saw him arrive with a bouquet, often put down his book to stare at the vase for long hours. Because Harry couldn’t be there all the time, and he didn’t want the man to be lonely. Because he still felt guilty for thinking Snape was dead and leaving him there in that shack, and bringing flowers was the only way he could find of asking for forgiveness without voicing the words out loud.</p>
<p>He thought Snape had died. When the man went limp, when the hand that was clutching at him thudded to the floor, Harry was <em>convinced</em> he was dead. It wasn’t until later, much later – much <em>too</em> late, in Harry’s opinion – when they sent people to retrieve the body, that Snape was revealed to be alive. Albeit barely. Just a bit longer, they said, and the snake venom would have taken a complete hold. Just a bit longer, and he was done for. <em>It wasn’t your fault,</em> Hermione told him over and over again. <em>You couldn’t have known</em>, the healers assured him. It was explained to him that the venom had slowed Snape’s heart until it nearly stopped, and he was in such a bad state, had lost so much blood, that there was no way to know he was still breathing unless his vital signs were observed very closely. And yet, despite all these reassurances, Harry had lived in guilt for weeks, red-eyed and sleepless at the thought that he had left the man there to die.</p>
<p>Snape was rushed to St Mungo’s and put into a magically induced coma as they dosed him again and again with antivenom, as they tried to repair the damage to his heart and his nerve endings, as they tried to stop the poison from reaching his brain and wreaking any more havoc on his body. And when he woke up, three weeks later, Harry made sure to be at his bedside.</p>
<p>The man hadn’t expected to survive, that much was obvious. He probably hadn’t expected for Harry to survive either and who could blame him? When he first opened his eyes, when his gaze fell on Harry’s face, there was confusion, and then unmistakable relief. He couldn’t talk, could barely even move, and his breathing was so, so shallow, but even as he struggled to keep his eyes open, he looked straight at Harry as if he wanted to speak, or to ask something.</p>
<p>Harry didn’t care that he probably would have snapped at him or pushed him away if he had the strength to. He took Snape’s hand in his own. “It’s all right, sir,” he said close into the man’s ear. “It’s over now. You’ll be fine.”</p>
<p>And he knew he wasn’t imagining it when, after hearing the words, Snape clutched his hand even tighter.</p>
<p>There wasn’t a trial, Harry made sure of it. He made sure everyone knew the truth, and that Snape would be left alone while he recovered and afterwards as well. This Snape, the one who woke up after the war, was the same, and yet so different. As he recovered and regained strength, he became his frowning, testy self again, but he wasn’t the bitter git Harry remembered. All those hateful glares that used to be thrown at him were gone from the man’s eyes now. This Snape was tired and a little bit lost, and he didn’t seem to know what to make of the new world. Harry didn’t quite know either, so he kept visiting. They managed to have civilised conversations, even sometimes pleasant ones, but every time Harry tried to bring up what had happened, what he had seen in the memories, the man would get angry and yell at him – as much as he could with his throat half ripped open. Snape even swore at him once, quite nastily, which shocked Harry before he reminded himself that he wasn’t a student anymore, and he was no longer safe from profanities. They got along most of the time, miraculously, though he learned to steer clear when Snape was in a mood.</p>
<p>Maybe it was simply because Harry now knew the whole truth – that Snape had always been loyal to Dumbledore and to him – rather than because the man had <em>really</em> changed, but he came to realise that Snape was quite interesting to talk to, and yes, sometimes even funny. He was sarcastic and witty, and Harry found his deadpan deliveries all the more hilarious. In the strangeness of this new world, slowly but surely, their vicious arguments turned into something like friendly banter. Harry liked to believe that Snape secretly enjoyed his visits, even if he never said so and always greeted him with an irritated scowl. By July, Hogwarts was half rebuilt, and Snape was moved to the hospital wing to recover in peace. Harry kept visiting him there, and he kept bringing the flowers.</p>
<p>By August, however, this terrible realisation, that he was in love with Snape, quickly started haunting him. It was inevitable. The thought grew like a baobab tree, thick roots anchoring deep and growing into a labyrinthine chunk of solid inner turmoil. The man occupied Harry’s every thought. Snape was on his mind from the instant he woke in the morning and he remained there all day, while Harry was having lunch with Ron and Hermione, while he met the people he had to meet, while he went on dates with Ginny, while he filled in the applications into the Auror training program. Snape was still there when Harry slid into bed at night, trying to find sleep but instead seeing the man’s dark eyes and laughing face hovering over everything else. Alone in his bed in the darkness, Harry started wondering what it would be like to have Snape by his side.</p>
<p>Not knowing what else to do, Harry stopped visiting him, stopped bringing flowers. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say. But not seeing him, not talking to him, only made it worse. He could try to chop down the tree, but the roots were still there.</p>
<p>He could tell no one what was eating away at him. He couldn’t tell Ron, not only because he was dating Ron’s sister but also because Ron still hated Snape, even now that he knew the truth. <em>Yeah, yeah, he was on our side all along, doesn’t cancel the fact that he’s a nasty git</em>, he would say. There wasn’t a single doubt in Harry’s mind that his friend would never understand, and he couldn’t tell Hermione either, because she told Ron everything. More than anyone else, he wanted to tell Ginny. Not only because she deserved to know, but mostly because they had grown so close these past few months that he could tell her things he couldn’t tell his friends anymore. He loved her, yes, though he wasn’t <em>in love</em> with her, and he couldn’t bear to hurt her or lose her.</p>
<p>“Harry,” she said softly one night while they lay naked together and he was listening to her steady heartbeats, ear pressed to her ribcage. “You haven’t been sleeping… you’re barely eating… Will you <em>please</em> tell me what’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“Nothing’s wrong,” he tried but heard his voice break at the words.</p>
<p>Ginny held his head in both hands, fingers grazing his scalp. “You can tell me anything,” she whispered. “I’ll always be here for you, no matter what happens. I love you, Harry.”</p>
<p>He wrapped his arms around her hips tightly and hid his face in her breast so she couldn’t see his fear. “I love you too,” he mumbled, his heart beating so furiously he thought for a second it would stop before he could get the words out. “But I… Gin, I think I like men too…”</p>
<p>“Babe, I know,” she said softly, pushing the hair from his forehead. “It’s okay.”</p>
<p>When he looked up at her, she was smiling. “You… <em>know</em>?” he stuttered.</p>
<p>She grinned down at him. “You’re not trying very hard to hide it. I saw the way you looked at Charlie when we went swimming at the creek,” she teased, flicking his ear playfully.</p>
<p>He was sure he gaped at her. “You don’t… You’re not mad?”</p>
<p>She frowned and shook her head as if he had said something so completely stupid that she refused to even give it any thought. “I like girls too,” she said.</p>
<p>“You <em>do</em>?” This time he was definitely gaping at her.</p>
<p>She laughed loudly in the stillness of the room while he continued to stare at her in disbelief. “I kissed Luna once,” she revealed. “I thought you knew about that.”</p>
<p>They talked until dawn. Ginny explained to him that a man loving another man, or a woman another woman, wasn’t such a big deal in the wizarding world. There was a much harsher prejudice regarding blood purity than sexual orientation. Harry supposed that made sense since wizards didn’t follow any of the Muggle religions, and he felt stupid for never considering this. He told her how much different it was in the Muggle world, what the Dursleys used to say about it when he was younger, and why he felt the need to hide that part of himself for so long. They laughed themselves silly talking about which boys and girls they’d had crushes on, and which men they thought attractive. Charlie, Harry admitted, grinning. And Edmund Carlisle from the Falmouth Falcons, to which Ginny vehemently agreed. Then, tentatively, his heart in his throat, Harry told her he thought Snape was somewhat attractive. To his greatest surprise, she nodded and informed him that back at Hogwarts some of her classmates had been fawning over him for years.</p>
<p>“It’s the eyes,” she said pensively. “There’s this mysterious air about him. And I’ve always thought he has amazing hands.”</p>
<p>It lifted a weight from Harry’s shoulders, this conversation, from his heart. And a few days later, after not having been for two weeks, he decided to visit Snape again. Merlin only knows how he’d managed to muster enough courage to, but he was determined to tell the man how he felt. He had no hope that the outcome of this revelation would be any good, but it just <em>had</em> to be done. At least they were on friendly enough terms now, weren’t they? He could make Snape laugh now – not some haughty sneer, but real laughter. There was a slight possibility that the man wouldn’t murder him. Oh, he knew there was not a chance in hell that Snape would be interested in him, but Harry needed to tell <em>someone</em>. If he didn’t, it would eat at him and keep eating until there was nothing left. Keeping silent was not an option, and there was no one else to talk to but Snape. At least he knew Snape wouldn’t tell anyone – to Harry’s knowledge, no one else ever visited him.</p>
<p>He didn’t bring flowers that time. It felt too stupid to bring flowers to a love declaration. And he had brought so many before that the gesture felt meaningless now.</p>
<p>It was mid-August, and the school was supposed to be ready for opening soon. The grounds were swarming with people putting final touches on the reparations, but as always, the hospital wing was empty. Except for Snape.</p>
<p>He was sitting up in bed, propped up on his pillows, concentrating on some old book, when Harry entered. He didn’t look up, but Harry knew he saw him, because his lips tightened, and his eyebrows twitched. Just at the sight of the man, pale and frowning and pretending not to be aware of his presence, Harry felt a smile tug at his lips, and his heart trembled. The last flowers he’d brought, the dahlias, were still on the bedside table, as beautiful as the first day. Someone had obviously cast a preservation spell.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry I haven’t visited in a while,” Harry began, stopping at the foot of the bed.</p>
<p>Snape snapped the book shut and shot him an annoyed glance. “Rest assured, Potter. I am entirely able to survive without your company,” he drawled.</p>
<p>Maybe it was Harry’s affection for him, or maybe it was only wishful thinking, but he got the impression that Snape was relieved to see him. “I’ve been busy,” Harry explained, still standing at the foot of the bed, still looking at the flowers. “I was preparing my application for the Auror training program.”</p>
<p>Snape scoffed, setting the book aside next to the vase. “Was that <em>really</em> necessary? They’ve been licking your boots for months, I’m certain you would have been accepted without all this bureaucratic nonsense.”</p>
<p>Harry felt himself smile. It almost sounded like the man had spoken with fondness, but it was probably only wishful thinking again. “I wanted to do it the normal way,” he said.</p>
<p>“Getting into Auror training without taking your NEWTs is <em>not</em> the normal way, Potter.”</p>
<p>Harry sighed, finally moving to take the chair next to the bed. “I know what you’re thinking,” he told Snape, who was frowning deeply and looking disappointed. “The <em>famous</em> Harry Potter, he can always get his way.”</p>
<p>“No, what I am thinking, Potter,” Snape retorted, his voice soft though disapproving still, “is that you are making a mistake–”</p>
<p>“A mistake?”</p>
<p>“–by going into Auror training–”</p>
<p>“You don’t think I would make a good Auror?”</p>
<p>“Will you let me speak, you insolent brat?” Snape snarled, but he lacked any bite. He only looked tired, and his voice broke near the end. “I think you would make an excellent Auror, Potter. But I also think you are making a mistake by doing what everyone expects you to do. All of them, McGonagall, Shacklebolt, the Weasleys, they all expect you to keep saving people.”</p>
<p>“It’s not just them, I <em>want</em> to do it,” Harry argued.</p>
<p>Snape looked piercingly at him. “You want to do it because you’ve been <em>groomed</em> to do it, Potter. Ever since you set foot in this school, Albus Dumbledore has played you. Have you learned <em>nothing </em>from all this? You want to do it because you believe there are no other options. Have you taken a moment to ask yourself if this is really what you want, or if you are simply taking the easy way?”</p>
<p>Harry kept silent for long a moment, heart in his throat, fingers clasped tightly on his lap. “What else could I possibly do?”</p>
<p>Snape sighed. “There is a world of possibilities out there. You’re eighteen, you don’t need to throw yourself headfirst into it. You can take a step back and think about your options.”</p>
<p>“What would <em>you</em> do… if you were me?”</p>
<p>“I would <em>rest</em>,” Snape said almost gently. “I think you deserve that much, after everything.”</p>
<p>Harry laughed, but the sound was bitter, and it hurt as it came out of his throat. “You really think they would just let me–”</p>
<p>“Who cares what they all think?” Snape hissed, his eyes shooting daggers. “If you want to take a breather for once in your bloody life, Potter, you should be allowed to. You have money, you could travel. You could live in a foreign city, spend your days lazing about. If I were you, Potter, I would pack my bags and leave and never come back. You don’t owe them any–”</p>
<p>“I’m in love with you,” Harry blurted out before he could stop it.</p>
<p>At first, Snape didn’t react. Part of Harry, the terrified part, hoped that maybe he hadn’t heard the words. But the other part – the desperate, sleepless, haunted one – wanted to say them again to make sure he had. But before he could find it in him to decide what to do, the man turned to him, his eyes dark like the abyss, mouth set in a furious line.</p>
<p>“<em>What</em> did you say, Potter?” he hissed dangerously.</p>
<p>“I’m in love with you,” Harry repeated, looking straight at him.</p>
<p>He had walked into the forest, he had faced death, he told himself, heart hammering in his chest. This was nothing compared to that.</p>
<p>“Get out of here!” the man snarled. “I will not let you mock me!”</p>
<p>“I’m not mocking you!” Harry said in a rush. “I mean it! I can’t stop thinking about–”</p>
<p>“<em>Get out!</em>” the man tried to yell, as much as his thin, broken voice could let him.</p>
<p>“I’m not mocking you, sir. I swear. I couldn’t come… for weeks I couldn’t…” Harry tried to explain, searching for the words. “Because I didn’t know how to tell you... I don’t know <em>how</em> it happened. I <em>don’t</em> know.”</p>
<p>Snape had fallen silent, breathing hard, almost wheezing. He was looking away, visibly trying to contain his anger. Harry was sure he had never seen the man so angry before in his entire life. His instincts told him to run, but he stood his ground.</p>
<p>“Or maybe it’s been there for a while and I just didn’t know it,” Harry said, trying to catch his breath, a burning knot forming in his throat. “Since the book… since I found your book, though I didn’t know it was yours… but I felt… The Half-Blood Prince, he was always… And then he was you, and I didn’t know you were on our side, and then you–”</p>
<p>“<em>Why</em> would you even tell me?” Snape raged, his face livid with anger. “<em>Why</em> couldn’t you keep this to yourself? How could you <em>possibly</em> think that I would want to hear this?”</p>
<p>“Because I <em>had</em> to say it. Because I don’t know what else to do. I’ve never felt this, sir–”</p>
<p>Harry jumped out of his chair as Snape launched towards him. He grabbed the vase of flowers, and with surprising strength for someone who had been bedridden for months, tossed it in Harry’s direction. Harry jumped out of the way easily, and the vase burst into pieces on the floor.</p>
<p>“Get the fuck out of here!” Snape yelled. “Get out before I hex you!”</p>
<p>“Please, sir…”</p>
<p>“What did you <em>expect</em>?” the man hissed, his voice barely able to get the words out by then. “What did you think would happen? Did you think I would declare my undying love for you? You are a <em>child</em>, Potter! A reckless, inconsiderate, foolish child! I could never want you! I <em>will</em> never want you! Now get out! I don’t want to see your bloody face again!”</p>
<p>That was the last time Harry saw him. He left before Snape could start throwing hexes instead of vases, thinking he should give the man time to calm down before he returned to explain that he wasn’t expecting anything from him. But when he returned three days later, Snape’s bed was empty. He had managed to talk Madam Pomfrey into releasing him, he had gathered all the belongings he had at Hogwarts, and he had simply left. Harry asked around, but no one knew where he was.</p>
<p>He had looked for him for months but could not find a single clue as to where Snape could have gone. It was his fault, he knew that much. He never should have said anything. He should have kept it to himself and let it eat at him. That would have been better. It was just a stupid crush, wasn’t it? It would have passed.</p>
<p>But it didn’t. It didn’t pass. It was still there when he did his Auror training, when he proposed to Ginny a year later. It was still there for the two years Harry was married, and it was still there when he divorced and quit his job and moved to Paris.</p>
<p>It’s still there now, six years later. To this day, Harry still dreams of dark eyes and the man’s laughing face.</p>
<p>And so, Harry wanders. Because what else is there to do?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Harry’s flat is in the hidden wizarding quarters of Paris, in Montmartre, a ten minutes’ walk from Oculus and Place Cachée. It’s a small but lovely two-bedroom on the fifth floor of an old building, with a balcony overlooking a quiet street. He had met Clémence through an ad in the papers after her former flatmate had left for Australia and they’d immediately hit it off. Clémence is petite and blonde, with an amazing sense of style and a shitty attitude. And truly awful taste in music.</p>
<p>The grating tremolo and retro rhythm of Johnny Hallyday assault him as soon as he steps inside the flat and out of range of the silencing spell. <em>Memories, memories… Of our good days of summer… when we went to pick… a thousand flowers, a thousand kisses…</em></p>
<p>Harry cringes. It’s even worse with the translation on – it does <em>not</em> like music and always struggles.</p>
<p>“Harry, is that you?” Clémence calls out over the racket.</p>
<p>He only grunts in response, trying to meddle with the volume on the giant gramophone without dropping all the stuff he’s carrying.</p>
<p>“Hey, don’t touch, arsehole!” she protests when he finally manages to turn the music down. “Did you get the bread? Otherwise I swear I will castrate you!”</p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah, I got the bread,” Harry says as he enters the small kitchen. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”</p>
<p>She bursts out laughing and looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”</p>
<p>“By what?”</p>
<p>“Don’t put your knickers in a twist,” she repeats with a shake of her head. “What does that mean?”</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s an English expression,” he explains, dropping the bags full of baguettes on the counter. “It just means you should calm down. Merlin, how much cheese did you buy?”</p>
<p>Piled up on the tiny kitchen counter are at least fifteen different types of cheese, which Clémence is in the process of carefully slicing with her wand.</p>
<p>She snorts. “After three years in Paris, you should know that you never have too much cheese, darling. Or wine.”</p>
<p>“I see that,” Harry comments, looking around the room.</p>
<p>There are olives on the table, and three different types of spreads for the bread, ready in fancy little mismatched bowls. And five bottles of wine with at least a dozen glasses already out. Five bottles! And each guest probably will bring one as a gift. <em>French people</em>, he thinks, shaking his head.</p>
<p>Clémence is moving along to the music as she slices a giant block of gouda, her blonde hair up in a hastily made bun that’s falling apart. She’s already dressed for the evening in a beautiful black mini dress, which she’s covered with an apron while manipulating the food. Harry looks fondly at her. Though they argue and bicker most of the time, he loves her to death and these three years living with her have probably been some of the best of his life.</p>
<p>She looks up and frowns in disdain, staring pointedly at his old t-shirt. “I hope you will change at least.”</p>
<p>Harry shrugs, determined to irritate her. “I think this is fine.”</p>
<p>“Fuck you! That’s not fine at all. You’re going to wear the black shirt, the one I like,” she threatens, pointing her wand at him. “You decided to abandon me, so you’re going to do what I tell you tonight. Go change and then you’ll cut the bread.”</p>
<p>“Yes, Mistress!” Harry laughs as he heads towards his bedroom.</p>
<p>He knew she would insist on him wearing this particular shirt, so he’s left it out of his packed luggage. It’s ready to wear, along with a nice pair of trousers – all in black, just as Clémence likes. If he is docile enough, he might be able to convince her to put on better music when the guests arrive.</p>
<p>He tries to do something with his hair, but as always, it’s a complete waste of time and he just allows it to go every which way it wants. He’s been wondering if maybe he should cut it before he starts teaching because it’s starting to curl over his ears slightly and he would like to make a good impression. But it’s more manageable when it’s longer, and it conveniently hides his scar. He doesn’t like when people keep looking at his scar when they talk to him, like they’re not interested in what he’s saying, only in who he is, in what he represents. He likes that in Paris people don’t really care that he’s Harry Potter. They don’t care what he’s done and generally don’t treat him any differently for it. Parisians in general are unimpressed by default. If you want their appreciation, you have to personally earn it.</p>
<p>Harry almost never wears his glasses anymore, having recently discovered the joys of Muggle contact lenses. With that and the hair, when he looks in the mirror now, he sees a different person. Sometimes he wonders if Ron and Hermione would recognise him. He hasn’t seen them for three years, and though they promised to keep in touch when he left, they really haven’t written much. He met with Ginny a few months ago. She stopped by on her way to Brussels for a Quidditch thing and they spent the day together. She commented on how handsome he looked and joked that maybe they should get married again. She’s engaged now, to a Quidditch player from Switzerland, and is completely and undeniably in love and happy.</p>
<p>“So, who is coming to this thing?” he asks when he walks back into the kitchen and receives an appreciative glance from Clémence.</p>
<p>“Camille, Delphine, Maxence, Gaspard,” she enumerates, carefully slicing a wheel of brie. “Then Alexandre and Laurence, of course. And Paul. Oh, Aurélie will come with her new boyfriend. And Félix, Mila–”</p>
<p>“How come you’re inviting <em>your</em> friends to <em>my</em> party?”</p>
<p>Clémence shakes her head with a little huff of annoyance. “Because <em>you</em> have no friends. Who else did you want me to invite? Cornélius? Anyways, as soon as you sleep with them, they are <em>your</em> friends too,” she snaps. “Which means that at least half of them are your friends now!” She continues before he can protest, “I invited the girl who will take your room, Héloïse, Félix’s cousin, so she can meet everyone. And Lola is going to be there tonight, so please don’t tell her anything embarrassing about me.”</p>
<p>Harry grins. “More embarrassing than your record collection, you mean?”</p>
<p>“Oh, fuck you!”</p>
<p>“Or do you mean your habit of dosing people with Veritaserum the first time you meet them?”</p>
<p>She pauses and rolls her eyes at him. “Are you going to stop bringing that back? I wanted to make sure I didn’t live with a pervert! Come on, cut the bread, will you?”</p>
<p>Harry takes his wand out and starts chopping the baguettes into canapés-sized slices. “Félix’s cousin, will you want to check <em>she’s</em> not a pervert? Should I be making sure you don’t spike her wine?”</p>
<p>“Oh, no, not necessary,” Clémence says, popping a piece of brie into her mouth. “I’m sure I could beat her if she attacks. Anyways, she doesn’t like girls.”</p>
<p>“Too bad for you then.”</p>
<p>She rolls her eyes again. “She is only nineteen years old. A little too young for me.” Clémence laughs then, as she places a block of cheddar on her cutting board to slice. “You just need to be her teacher.”</p>
<p>He frowns. “What?”</p>
<p>“She is nineteen,” Clémence repeats, annoyed, before rephrasing. “A little less and you could be her teacher. Harry, I don’t know how you’re going to manage to teach with this fucking translation spell. It’s going to be a nightmare. The poor students.”</p>
<p>Harry shrugs, pretending that this hasn’t been bothering him more and more lately. “It’s not so bad. I manage.”</p>
<p>“You really have no idea how you sound. If you knew, you would be ashamed. Three years, Harry. You would have had time to learn French if you had left your old dusty books aside from time to time.”</p>
<p>Harry sighs, levitating a large plate of sliced baguettes onto the dining table. “Well, it’s too late now. And they knew I didn’t know French when they offered me the job. And they gave it to me anyway, which means it’s not so important.”</p>
<p>“In any case,” Clémence says with a heavy sigh, “Félix says that his cousin is a prude. At least I know I don’t have to worry about <em>her</em> fucking all my friends.”</p>
<p>“Oh, for the last time!” Harry exclaims, exasperated. “I haven’t fucked all of your friends!”</p>
<p>Clémence laughs bitterly. “You fucked that stupid Florent, so forgive me but I honestly don’t know what else you can do.”</p>
<p>They keep arguing until the guests start arriving. Camille, Clémence’s younger sister, is the first to get there, wanting to help with the preparations, which is a good thing because there’s still so much cheese to slice. Harry adds the bottle of wine she’s brought to the table next to theirs. Then Félix arrives with his cousin Héloïse, the new flatmate, a young girl who looks sort of shy. Harry doubts she’ll stay very shy for long after moving in with Clémence. Harry puts the two bottles they’ve brought on the table.</p>
<p>While Camille finishes with the cheese and Clémence starts pouring the wine for the first guests, Harry is on greeting duty at the door.</p>
<p>“By Merlin’s hairy balls, what are you wearing?” he asks when he opens the door to find Maxence in full dress robes, and because it’s over thirty degrees outside, red-faced and sweating like a pig.</p>
<p>Maxence laughs briefly at the expression, then pulls at the collar of his robes uncomfortably. “Clémence said to dress well,” he explains, sounding out of breath. “It seems that Gaspard is coming, and I wanted to make a good impression. But I think I’m dying. Can you help me remove this?”</p>
<p>Harry laughs, dragging him into the flat, where they’ve put up a nice cooling spell, and helps him take the outer robe off over his head, and then the waistcoat while Maxence breathes heavily.</p>
<p>“Do I have spots of sweat?” he asks afterwards, spinning around for Harry to examine. “Damn, I must be soaked.”</p>
<p>Harry carefully dries the back of Maxence’s dress shirt, which is completely drenched, with a swift wave of his hand. “It’s fine now.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, darling,” Maxence says, leaning in to kiss Harry on both cheeks and then hugging him tightly. “How are you, the faller?” he mumbles into Harry’s ear. “You’re okay?”</p>
<p>Harry smiles at the term. The faller. <em>Le tombeur</em>. It doesn’t translate with the spell, but he knows what it means now, since Maxence gave him the nickname. Someone who makes people fall in love and then throws them. Heartbreaker.</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” Harry whispers back, hugging him even tighter.</p>
<p>“If you’ve changed your mind, don’t be shy,” Maxence says, teasing. “If you decided that you didn’t want to leave and that you want to stay and grow old with me, I’m sure the students will understand.”</p>
<p>Harry snorts softly, pulling back. “That sounds lovely, but you’d be miserable with me.”</p>
<p>“I doubt,” Maxence replies with a sort of pained smile before calling out, dramatically, “Where is the wine?” and marching into the dining room to fetch himself a glass.</p>
<p>Harry watches him go with a heavy heart before greeting Mila, who has just Apparated on the landing.</p>
<p>One of his biggest regrets since coming to Paris has been sleeping with Maxence. Not that it wasn’t great, it was amazing, but because of all the trouble it caused. Harry, who’s always been quite clueless about people and their feelings, had been completely unaware that Maxence was irrevocably in love with him when they fell into bed. And of course, because that’s what people do when they’re in love and the object of their love sleeps with them, he’d thought Harry returned his affections. He started coming by Harry’s work with lunch or coffee and wanting to know when they could see each other, trying to arrange dates. Having to tell him that what had happened didn’t mean anything to him was one of the hardest things Harry had ever had to do. And the resulting heartbreak was the cause of the most vicious fight he’d ever had with Clémence. She accused him of being a <em>heartless fucking arsehole</em> who didn’t give a shit about people’s feelings, and there was a lot of yelling and slamming of doors.</p>
<p>Harry ended up visiting Maxence, who hadn’t been to work in three days and opened the door in his pyjamas, looking red-eyed and tired. He was miraculously let in and they talked for hours. Maxence knows more about him now than anyone else Harry has ever been with. Even Aurélie, whom he has dated for nearly six months. Even Ginny, maybe, because Maxence is the only person on earth who knows about Snape, who knows exactly <em>why</em> Harry is wandering.</p>
<p>As if the situation isn’t tense enough, Aurélie shows up next, accompanied by her new boyfriend, just like Clémence had warned. The way the new boyfriend, introduced as Baptiste, eyes him coldly, and the way Aurélie kisses Harry <em>very</em> briefly, is sign enough that she’s told the bloke about him and that he didn’t like the news. Harry represses a sigh. What a pleasant evening this will be.</p>
<p>Luckily, Alexandre and Laurence soon arrive, and Harry rejoices at the sight of two people he <em>hasn’t</em> had sex with. The two of them have been married for three years now, and only have eyes for each other. Laurence is a Muggle, though she’s aware and used to everything wizarding by now. She’s brought a cake that she made and is greeted with general excitement.</p>
<p>As the guests arrive and the flat fills up, Harry looks around the room and winces discreetly. Clémence was right. He <em>has</em> slept with at least half of her friends.</p>
<p>They are all chatting in the kitchen when Gaspard finally shows up, later than everyone else, as always, and Maxence goes rigid at the sight of the handsome young man that accompanies him.</p>
<p>“I will be alone for the rest of my life,” Maxence moans, eyeing Gaspard’s guest with despair.</p>
<p>“Maybe Clémence has a snobbish Muggle friend she could introduce you to,” Harry says, patting him on the back.</p>
<p>“Do you have one, Clém? That would be really good!”</p>
<p>As the evening progresses and the wine flows and the laughter grows, Harry starts feeling melancholic. And inevitably, he starts questioning his decision to leave. They are not just Clémence’s friends anymore, he realises. They came strictly for him, and one of them is constantly there, by his side, hugging him or filling his glass with wine, telling him they’ll miss him and teasing him. Clémence is mostly busy trying to impress this Lola that she’s invited, but once in a while she’ll address him to remind him of some anecdote or another.</p>
<p>“Do you remember the time when we were completely drunk and we almost blew up the apartment trying to make Felix Felicis?” she asks, loudly and drunkenly. “Damn, it was a good time!”</p>
<p>He knows she’s feeling nostalgic as well when she changes the record and starts playing Aznavour for him. Harry might constantly make fun of her music tastes, but he likes this singer and his distinctive voice.</p>
<p>“Clémence told me that you are going to teach at Beauxbâtons?” Héloïse, the future flatmate, asks him when he retires to the living room, away from the loud cacophony of people gobbling up cheese in the kitchen. “What material?”</p>
<p>He has to think for a second. “Defensive Magic. They call it Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts,” he explains.</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s right, you went to Hogwarts. You have almost no accent.”</p>
<p>“He uses this horrible translation spell,” Alexandre explains around a mouthful of bread, from where he’s sitting on the sofa with his wife. “It does the accent, but if you look close enough, you can see his lips moving differently. It’s ridiculous.”</p>
<p>“I never noticed,” Laurence says, peering closely at Harry even though he’s not saying anything at the moment.</p>
<p>“There must be an illusion for Muggles or something like that. How are you going to teach?” Alexandre asks Harry before stuffing more pesto-smeared bread into his mouth.</p>
<p>Harry sighs. “For the last time, I can manage. I know it sounds bad sometimes, but it’s good enough.”</p>
<p>“I understand you perfectly,” Héloïse reassures. “One of the teachers at Beauxbâtons used to teach at Hogwarts before. You may know him. Severus Snape? He teaches Potions.”</p>
<p>Harry’s head spins for a second, and he knows it’s not just from the wine. “What?” he asks softly.</p>
<p>“He teaches Potions, at Beauxbâtons. He started when I was in fifth year. He’s got a pretty bad temper, but he’s great. His French is perfect, he doesn’t need a spell. You know him?”</p>
<p>“Yeah… Yeah, I know him,” Harry says, suddenly fidgety and trying hard to hide it. “I think I’ll go out for a smoke. Excuse me.”</p>
<p>He slips out onto the balcony, making sure to shut the door behind him so the cooling spell doesn’t fail, and he breathes in the warm night air. Inside the apartment, <em>La Bohème</em> starts playing, and Alexandre takes Laurence’s hand to waltz her ridiculously across the living room. Harry watches them for a time, his heart heavy, then turns his back to the French doors and lights up a cigarette with shaky hands, sparking a flame with a snap of his fingers.</p>
<p>Snape teaches at Beauxbâtons then. That’s where he’s been all these years. That’s where he’s been hiding while Harry looked for him, while Harry dreamt of him, while his heart withered in his chest and he broke other people’s hearts trying to mend his own…</p>
<p>The music gets louder for a moment, and a burst of cold air seeps outside as the door opens and closes. He turns to see Aurélie joining him on the small balcony and he tries to smile at her, but he knows it probably looks quite pained. He doesn’t think he could possibly smile at this moment. His heart is a heavy ball of lead inside his chest.</p>
<p>She reaches for his hand and taps the bracelet to turn the spell off. “I knew I would find you hiding somewhere,” she says softly in English.</p>
<p>He snorts. “Won’t <em>Baptiste</em> be looking for you?”</p>
<p>She shakes her head. “Paul is lecturing him about some boring law bill the Muggles are trying to pass. They will be at it for hours. He’s jealous of you,” she adds with a grin.</p>
<p>“Not much to be jealous about,” he says softly, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “I’m leaving, anyway.”</p>
<p>Through the door, they can hear Alexandre singing badly along with the song, and some bursts of laughter.</p>
<p>“What’s up with you now, Sad Eyes?” Aurélie asks, resting her cheek on his shoulder. “Are you having second thoughts?”</p>
<p>“Sad Eyes,” he repeats, looking down at the dark alley below. “I don’t like it when you call me that.”</p>
<p>“Well, it’s true. You <em>always</em> have sad eyes. It’s worse when you drink,” she says, taking his glass, which he’d left dangerously balanced on the balcony railing, and moving it out of reach. “Are the ghosts with you tonight?” This is what she used to ask when she found him lying awake in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling.</p>
<p>“Yeah, they are,” he mutters, before turning to look at her. “I like your hair like that. You look like Audrey Hepburn.” He’d wanted to tell her before, when she arrived and he noticed she had chopped her long brown hair into a very short cut, but he didn’t dare comment on her appearance in front of her scowling boyfriend.</p>
<p>Aurélie laughs, and the adorable dimples he likes so much appear on her cheeks. “Thanks. I felt like a change, and <em>I</em> didn’t have a prestigious job offer, so I decided to cut my hair,” she teases. “You’ll do just fine, by the way. You’ll be great.”</p>
<p>He nods, turning back to stare out at the night<em>. </em><em>Dans son nouveau décor, Montmartre semble triste et les lilas sont morts</em><em>,</em> Aznavour is crooning, muffled by the door, the laughing and the singing. Aurélie takes Harry’s hand, entwining their fingers.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry for everything,” he tells her. “I’ve caused a lot of trouble here. But I’ve thought about it and… I’ve given up being with anyone. I think it’s better I’m on my own. And I think everyone will be better off with me gone.”</p>
<p>Aurélie squeezes his hand, looking at him sadly. “Don’t say that. I think you would do just fine with the right person. You’ll find them someday.”</p>
<p>Harry snorts, letting out a burst of smoke. “It’s funny. Cornélius said something similar a few days ago.”</p>
<p>“See? Who could disagree with him?” Aurélie insists. “At his age, I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about.”</p>
<p>The song is ending inside the flat, and there’s a flutter of clapping and whistling. As the next one begins, everyone joins in to sing, all quite badly and drunkenly. Aurélie laughs softly and turns to watch them through the door for a while, leaning back on the railing and smiling brightly.</p>
<p>Harry remains silent, still staring at the street. Snape is at Beauxbâtons. Does he know Harry has been hired? Will he be furious to see him? <em>I don’t want to see your bloody face again! </em>the man hissed at him six years ago, almost to the very day. Has Harry just signed up for a whole year of misery? Of being snapped at and looked at in disgust? Of feeling like his heart will crawl out of his chest every day?</p>
<p>It doesn’t matter, he thinks determinedly, snuffing what’s left of his cigarette on the balcony railing. It doesn’t matter what that prick thinks. Harry is no longer the stuttering, wide-eyed teenager who blurted out his love six years ago. And who knows? Maybe seeing the man again will make all this go away. Maybe he’s been over Snape for years without really being aware of it. Maybe.</p>
<p>Hopefully.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>- 2 -</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>adaptation</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The town is called Nuée-sur-le-Lac and is located in the Hautes-Pyrénées, in the south of France, near the Spanish border. Harry has looked up the definition of <em>nuée</em> – a thick cloud or a swarm of birds – and concludes it must be named after the birds because the sky is a clear, pure blue today. It looks like the sort of place that has never seen a cloud in living memory. Like Hogsmeade, Nuée is the only all-wizarding town in France, but it rivals its English counterpart in all aspects, in Harry’s opinion. The lake, surrounded by mountains on all sides, is wide and still and so beautifully clear you can see the rocks and the marine plants through its blue depths. The houses are nestled at the foot of the hills, all along the water’s edge – medieval style constructions of all shapes, some built dangerously high, with thatched roofs, and here and there, docks extending on the lake with little boats attached. It looks like a picture from those Muggle calendars Aunt Petunia used to buy. As Harry stands on the station platform, admiring the view, he realises this might be the most breath-taking and peaceful place he’s ever seen. He hasn’t seen <em>much</em> of the world, to be fair, but he is convinced he could easily spend the rest of his life here.</p>
<p>The day is warm, even though it’s barely noon, and his t-shirt is already sticking to his back from the heat. As the other passengers mill about on the platform, heading for the stationhouse or towards the road, Harry walks over to a small shaded area to the side, setting his bag on the ground and sitting on a lone bench to continue his observation of the landscape. He can make out the majestic silhouette of Beauxbâtons on top of one of the neighbouring mountains. Its high, graceful towers of pale stone seem to touch the sky.</p>
<p>He was told someone would come fetch him and take him up to the school, and he has spent the whole train ride from Lourdes trying to stop his hands from trembling and hoping against hope that it won’t be Snape picking him up. At last he finally managed to convince himself to calm down because surely it won’t be him. Classes start in three weeks – he must be too busy to come. Not that he would agree to it if he weren’t, mind you. And yet some small part of Harry hopes it <em>will</em> be him. He isn’t sure, however, if it’s because he can’t wait to see the man again, or just so he can get this awkward situation over with as soon as possible. He has decided that he won’t mention what happened the last time they saw each other, that he won’t bring up any of it unless Snape does first. And he has decided to avoid the man as much as possible without seeming hurt or disinterested. He has decided to act as if all this love nonsense is behind him, as if he hasn’t been thinking about Snape nearly every day for six years.</p>
<p>Harry shuts his eyes and takes long, deep breaths. <em>Slowly, five seconds in, five seconds out</em>, Aurélie used to say softly in the dark, rubbing his back as he fought for breath. The air is heavy with the scents of summer, pure and sweet and so different from the scents of Paris. This is different, this is new. He’ll make something of this. There will be no more wandering. He won’t let Snape ruin this for him – he’s ruined more than enough things already.</p>
<p>There’s barely anyone on the platform by now, and Harry starts wondering if maybe they’ve forgotten about him. He decides he will wait a little more and then ask at the station if there’s any way someone could take him up to the school. He lights a cigarette for now, and smokes it silently, looking at the lake. He can hear voices and chatter from some of the closest buildings – little shops and a bakery, from what he can make out in the distance. There’s a delicious smell wafting from somewhere, and it makes his stomach growl.</p>
<p>“Harry!” a voice says, and he is instantly filled with relief, because it isn’t Snape. Definitely not.</p>
<p>For a fraction of a second, he is convinced that it’s Fleur standing there in front of him. But just as quickly this certainty vanishes, and he realises exactly who this is, because if it’s not Fleur, there’s only one person it can be.</p>
<p>“Gabrielle?” he finds himself asking, although there isn’t a doubt in his mind.</p>
<p>Her hair is much shorter than her sister’s, barely brushing her shoulders, and she has a lovely tan that makes the silvery blond stand out even more. Her eyes are bigger and paler than Fleur’s, and her face much younger, of course. She is wearing very short denim jeans and a sleeveless blouse. When Harry last saw her, at her sister’s wedding, Gabrielle Delacour was eleven years old and blushing at him. She is grinning widely now, with none of her former shyness, and is visibly delighted to see him. Harry finds himself grinning back. He crushes what’s left of his cigarette and stands to greet her.</p>
<p>“Sorry I’m a little late,” she says in English, with barely an accent, kissing him on both cheeks before hugging him tightly. “I was trying to find somewhere discreet to park my car and I had to walk from there.”</p>
<p>“Your car?” he asks with disbelief, turning off the translation spell for now.</p>
<p>“I’ll explain everything,” she says with a laugh. “Are you hungry? Have you eaten yet?”</p>
<p>“Not since this morning. I’m starving.” He feels even hungrier now that all the nervousness has left him. No Snape yet… Maybe there’s hope.</p>
<p>“I thought we could have lunch in town, if you like?” Gabrielle suggests.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes. Great idea!”</p>
<p>He picks up his bag, which looks quite small for someone who’s coming to stay for almost a year, but it’s filled with about a hundred shrunken books and clothes and a ton of items, all under a featherlight spell. They start walking along the lake towards where the dirt road in front of the stationhouse turns into a cobbled street, towards the little shops and the noises and the delicious smells.</p>
<p>“So, you have a car?” he asks again.</p>
<p>“It was a birthday gift from Fleur,” Gabrielle explains. “Mr Weasley enchanted it for me. It’s entirely powered by magic, no need for gas.”</p>
<p>“Does it fly?”</p>
<p>Gabrielle laughs brightly and Harry’s heart gives an involuntary jump at the sound. He reminds himself that she’s part-Veela, and that if he could possibly manage not to make a fool of himself in front of her, it would be grand.</p>
<p>“No, unfortunately not. Just a regular old car. For years, my best friend and I talked about taking a trip like in the movies. We spent a month driving through Spain and Portugal. We had the best time. I really enjoy driving and I thought I’d bring the car here when I came back to school. There are lovely places to visit around the mountains. And since I’m not a student anymore, I’m free to wander.” She points to a small building with a terrace of little wooden tables that extends into the street. “That’s a wonderful little restaurant that makes traditional French cuisine,” she says. “Is that good for you? I’m in the mood for a quiche.”</p>
<p>“It’s perfect.”</p>
<p>They walk over and pick a table with a beautiful view of the lake. There’s a middle-aged couple next to them, eating what looks like coq au vin. The waitress comes over and Harry turns the spell back on to hear the day’s specials. Once they have been provided with some water and left to look at the menu, Harry turns it off again. From inside the restaurant, Dalida is singing <em>Gigi l’amoroso</em> on the wireless, and Harry feels nostalgia tug at his heart. At least he’s developed quite the essential knowledge of French music while living with Clémence.</p>
<p>“What are you doing here anyway?” he asks Gabrielle, who is trying to decide between two different types of quiche. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but I thought you’d left school.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be working as an assistant this year, for Professor Snape,” she announces proudly.</p>
<p>Harry immediately avoids her eyes to examine the menu. “Oh,” he says after a moment, wishing he could manage to sound enthusiastic for her.</p>
<p>“You knew he was teaching here right?” she asks tentatively, and he’s certain she must be looking at him curiously.</p>
<p>“I only found out a few days ago,” he admits, peering closely at the menu to try and understand the difference between the croque-monsieur and the croque-madame.</p>
<p>“I had a feeling you weren’t on very good terms,” Gabrielle says softly.</p>
<p>He finally looks at her but she’s looking at her own menu still. “Why do you say that?”</p>
<p>She smiles in the sort of polite way of people who don’t want to hurt your feelings. “He wasn’t very happy when he found out you were hired,” she reveals, and he has a feeling that <em>wasn’t very happy</em> is a euphemism here. “But don’t worry,” she adds, putting the menu down. “I think he’s over it now. He asked to read your class plans and he stopped complaining after that. I think he was impressed. And he is not impressed very often.”</p>
<p>“No, he’s not.”</p>
<p>The waitress returns and they both order the vichyssoise for a starter, then Gabrielle picks the quiche lorraine and Harry decides to try the croque-monsieur.</p>
<p>“To be fair, your class plans are brilliant, Harry,” Gabrielle adds once they’re alone again. “I can’t believe you chose Bisset’s book for the sixth and seventh years. You know they study him at undergraduate level, right? I saw some classes strictly on his defence techniques when I was looking at the programs at the university in Perugia. Usually teachers stick with Comtois’ manuals for all seven years, but you just kept the Intermediary one, if I remember correctly?”</p>
<p>“Yes, for the fifth years. It’s good preparation for the OWLs. I know they have Bisset on the curriculum in Nuremberg too. Your English is <em>very</em> good, by the way. Much better than Fleur’s.”</p>
<p>Gabrielle snorts. “It’s not very hard to be better than Fleur in languages. I was thinking of going to England after school. The university in York has a good Potions department, so I took English as an optional as soon as I could. I don’t know anymore though,” she says pensively. “I think I might try the Flamel Institute. I did a lot of Alchemy. Well, as much as I could, it’s only an option here. There aren’t as many classes as I would like. But in the meantime, the assistant position seems perfect. While I decide, you know. I can always get credits for it when I go to university.”</p>
<p>“Do you think it will be a problem, me not speaking French?” Harry asks hesitantly.</p>
<p>Gabrielle takes a long sip of water before she answers. “Madame Maxime knows you don’t, and she hired you anyway. I suppose the translation spells are good enough for her. We’ve had professors use them before, although they were mostly visiting for lectures.”</p>
<p>“It’s enough for conversations, but I’m a little worried about the essays. I know spelling counts and I don’t think I can actually correct well enough.”</p>
<p>“The assistants will help with that. It’s part of their job. Did Madame Maxime explain that to you?”</p>
<p>“It was mentioned in the documents I received, but I was thinking I could probably manage–” Harry begins.</p>
<p>She interrupts him immediately, shaking her head. “Oh, no, Harry. You <em>need</em> them. There’s no way you can manage without. You’re allowed two, it’s in the budget. And if you ask for a third, it’s not unheard of. Teaching at Beauxbâtons is a lot of work. It’s not like Hogwarts. The classes are bigger.”</p>
<p>He pauses. “How big exactly? They sent me a lot of brochures and such, but I didn’t really have time to look at all the information. I was too busy getting the curriculum ready in time.”</p>
<p>“Well, admission to Beauxbâtons is contingent. We only take eighty students per year, for a total of five hundred and sixty. There are no houses like in Hogwarts or some of the other schools. For the teachers’ sakes, we have split each year in two groups, A and B, so you’ll have an average of forty or so students per classroom.”</p>
<p>“Forty?” Harry nearly stutters.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry, that’s what you have assistants for. You won’t even notice the size. Beauxbâtons works on a system similar to that of universities. Each group has a theory lesson followed up by a laboratory every week. For years one to five, you only have to teach the theory lessons and your assistants will handle the practical side of things, as in helping the students with homework and if they have trouble with some spells. They are also available for corrections if you set essays. You will have to be available a few times a week if the students want to meet with you directly. NEWT-level classes are contingent and only accept the top forty students, so you’ll only have one group of sixth years and one group of seventh years. Your assistants can also help with those, but you will give the labs yourself.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry I’m not more informed,” Harry says, suddenly embarrassed.</p>
<p>Gabrielle only smiles. “It’s okay. You were a bit of a last-minute hire, it’s normal. That’s why I’m here. There’s also the honours seminars for the seventh years.”</p>
<p>“I knew about that, at least. The lessons are all planned out.”</p>
<p>“It’s very different from Hogwarts, but don’t worry, you have three weeks to figure it out,” Gabrielle assures him. “I’ll help you.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you have to help Professor Snape?”</p>
<p>“Oh, he’s not here yet. He’s traveling, I think. He was gone all of July, then he was here at the beginning of the month, but he left last week again. He should return by the 30th, I’ve been told. Classes start on the 6<sup>th</sup> this year, so there’s plenty of time. I’ll do some preparations for the laboratories, mostly dosing ingredients, but I’ll have plenty of free time if you need me for anything. Javier, the other assistant, should get here in the next few days, so he can take over some of my workload.”</p>
<p>Their food arrives and as they start eating, Gabrielle talks more in depth about the school and Harry cannot help being amazed at how much different it is from Hogwarts. No wonder the Beauxbâtons students looked down on them when they visited in his fourth year. The teachers don’t patrol the castle at night, there are supervisors hired specifically for that. On top of the mandatory classes like Defensive Magic, Potions, Charms, Transfiguration and the rest, starting in fourth year, students can choose optional subjects from three categories, and two more become available to the sixth and seventh years. Those include a variety of disciplines from Alchemy and Runes to Muggle subjects such as European History and Sciences, as well as modern languages, ancient languages, and arts. Some of those lessons are offered on Saturday, and every Sunday students from the upper grades are allowed to visit Nuée. While no English class has ever been taught at Hogwarts, French classes are mandatory for everyone for the whole duration of their schooling. As Gabrielle explained, the main subjects that require some practical work have laboratories handled by the teachers’ assistants. Harry finds himself wondering if he might have appreciated Snape’s classes more if someone else had monitored their potion-making activities.</p>
<p>As they share a millefeuille for dessert, Gabrielle explains that there is an entrance exam to get into Beauxbâtons. Unlike Hogwarts, students are tested on their abilities and aptitudes before they even set foot in the school.  And though part of the school’s budget is provided for by the French Ministry, the students have to pay a yearly tuition and the school has many donators. All this funding explains the level of education and the number of teachers and assistants.</p>
<p>Once they are done eating, and after chugging a delicious espresso, they walk back the way they came, the warm sun even stronger than before. They continue past the train station and down the road, where Gabrielle has left her car – an old Renault from 1961, she tells him. It has a sort of matte cream colour and Harry smiles, realising that in his head he had been picturing it light blue, like the old Ford Anglia. Gabrielle puts Harry’s bag in the trunk, and they climb in, immediately rolling down the windows to get rid of the unbearable heat inside. When she stars the car, a flurry of voices come out of the radio, some men arguing in what sounds like Spanish, and Gabrielle immediately turns the volume down.</p>
<p>“The only station I’m getting is from some town in Spain,” she says with a laugh while she turns the car around on the narrow dirt road. “Barcelona is not so far from here, you know. Have you ever been?”</p>
<p>“I haven’t really been anywhere,” Harry admits.</p>
<p>She grins at him. “We could go one weekend, if you want. Or during the holidays. The magical quarters are amazing.”</p>
<p>Harry smiles. “I would really love that.”</p>
<p>“It’s a date then!” she exclaims as the car takes up speed. “Well, not in <em>that</em> way but… as the Muggles say,” she adds, blushing slightly.</p>
<p>A song has just started, and she turns up the music very loud, singing along to the man’s velvety voice. “<em>Hey! No vayas presumiendo por ah</em><em>í</em><em> diciendo que no puedo estar sin ti. ¿Tú qué sabes de mi?</em>”</p>
<p>She grins, her hair blowing in the wind, and her blouse opens up slightly, giving Harry a view of part of her lacy bra. He turns away to look outside his window at the trees speeding by. <em>No, Harry! </em>Clémence’s voice snaps in his head. <em>She’s eighteen! You will not sleep with the teachers’ assistants!</em></p>
<p>He has no intention to, of course. It’s the part-Veela thing, he can tell. As charming as Gabrielle is, as beautiful her face and as lovely her voice, all Harry can think about is Severus bloody Snape. His hands have stopped trembling, and his breath comes easily in and out of his lungs now that he knows he won’t see the man again for at least two weeks. But there is disappointment as well, and he can’t help but wonder if Snape is <em>really</em> travelling or just avoiding him. </p>
<p><em>You’re imagining things</em>, he tells himself. <em>He doesn’t care about you, he never did</em>. <em>He never will. So just live your life, will you?</em></p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>In terms of size, if Harry had to give a rough estimate, Beauxbâtons must be nearly twice as large as Hogwarts. But then again, it’s hard to say, because Hogwarts is so strangely built that even with all his sneaking around through the years, he has never managed to discover all of it, and Harry would say that it uses only about half of its capacity due to the small number of students. Beauxbâtons is almost intimidatingly large but much easier to navigate – there is no possibility of getting lost here. The wings are marked by letters, the rooms and floors are numbered, there are fixed plans in the corridors and signs wherever you need them, and in barely two days, the small map Harry has been given becomes unnecessary.</p>
<p>The teachers’ quarters are all in the F wing. Harry’s are on the sixth floor and the wide window of his sitting room offers a vertiginous view of the mountain cliff, the lake and the town of Nuée down below. At night, the whole room is flooded with moonlight if he leaves the drapes open. He also has a cosy little office with plenty of shelves for books, and a private bathroom with a nice large tub. There is a standard double bed in his bedroom, and a large wardrobe. Harry has everything he might need, even a little stove in a corner of the sitting room, ideal for making late-night tea without having to bother the house elves.</p>
<p>His proper, <em>official</em> office is in the A wing, which is essentially reserved for classrooms and other teachers’ offices. This is where he can go in between classes without having to walk all the way back to his quarters. This is also where he can meet with students and consult with his assistants. It is on the ninth floor, facing east, and is filled with sunlight in the mornings. Since it’s much larger than the workspace in his private quarters, and Harry knows he will spend most of his time here, he makes himself at home. Rapidly, the shelves are filled with books and he moves one of the small sofas from his sitting room in here – who needs two anyway? – placing it next to the window to give the room a more homely feel. On top of Harry’s own desk and the new addition of the sofa, there are armchairs for students, and extra desks and shelves to be used by his assistants. The room ends up a bit cramped, but a nifty expansion charm takes care of the problem.</p>
<p>Once Harry’s office is ready, there’s the matter of selecting his assistants that he desperately needs to tackle. He has a little over two weeks before school starts, and all the professors have selected their own already, but Harry has been dreading it because the pile of applications can only be described as impressive and intimidating. They have been pouring in from the moment it was announced Harry would take the job, Gabrielle had informed him when showing him to his new office. They were already there on the desk, almost toppling over, waiting for him, and he had looked through four or five of them before giving up. Last night, after dinner, he’d been apprehended by an anxious, if not slightly disapproving Madame Maxime, <em>kindly</em> asking for him to select people before the end of the week. So, on Wednesday morning, three days after his arrival, Harry settles into his office with a large cup of coffee and attacks the ominous pile. A few hours later, when Gabrielle pops in to see how he’s doing, Harry has his head in his hands and isn’t even halfway done.</p>
<p>“Come on,” she says with a laugh, grabbing some of the files and gesturing for him to take the rest. “Let’s get some lunch and I’ll help you go through these.”</p>
<p>Harry had expected the school to be empty at this time of year, except maybe for a few professors, but as Gabrielle explained to him on his first day, Beauxbâtons offers summer school for younger children during July and August, where they take part in games and various activities. Seventh year students can apply to be monitors and are responsible for the children during their stay and get extra credits for their work. As they walk along the main corridor, carrying the piles of applications, Harry and Gabrielle are met with a small group of nine or eight-year-olds running about, generally causing mayhem, chased by a red-faced and scolding teenager.</p>
<p>“I think <em>this</em> is why Professor Snape leaves for the summer,” Gabrielle tells him.</p>
<p>Harry grins at the thought. “Oh, definitely.”</p>
<p>“Let’s go to the professors’ dining room. It should be quiet there.”</p>
<p>Harry has been introduced to most of the staff already – at least, to those who have arrived or have stayed for the whole summer – some of which are having lunch when they walk in. There is Professor Moreau, who teaches Charms and seems to already dislike Harry. This surely has to do with some lessons from Harry’s curriculum very nearly contradicting many of the old man’s views on magical theory. Sitting with him is the Magizoology teacher, Professor Dominici, who greets Harry joyfully before resuming the anecdote he is telling, his hands flying expressively as he talks. Sitting across the room is the Arithmancy teacher, Professor Romilly, and one of her assistants, a shy-looking girl who smiles at them but looks away blushing when Harry says hello.</p>
<p>They skim the files while they eat from a platter of mixed sandwiches that appears on the table as soon as they sit.</p>
<p>“Let’s start by eliminating some of these,” Gabrielle suggests after looking through a few.  “What are you looking for exactly?”</p>
<p>“Well…” Harry sighs, thoroughly sick of the paperwork by now. “Preferably people with fluent English, at least spoken. And good French skills for the corrections.”</p>
<p>Gabrielle frowns in concentration and waves her wand swiftly. At once, more than half of the files escape from the pile and get discarded to the side. “What else?”</p>
<p>“I was thinking, O in Defence on their NEWTs. Do you think that’s asking too much?”</p>
<p>“Not at all,” Gabrielle agrees before casting the spell again and the pile diminishes slightly.</p>
<p>“And efficient duelling skills, of course,” he adds finally. “But that’s hard to judge from a file.”</p>
<p>There are twenty-five or so left at this point. Still a lot, but the sight of the small amount compared to what they started with is enough to give Harry some hope.</p>
<p>“Let’s go through the rest of these ourselves,” Gabrielle suggests, grabbing the first one. “At least we got rid of most of them. Oh, this one is from Durmstrang. And he did a year of undergrad studies already. He’s looking for practical credits now. It’s rare, someone from Durmstrang with good French,” she muses.</p>
<p>“Can I take someone from Durmstrang?”</p>
<p>“Madame Maxime prefers for you to select former Beauxbâtons students, but it’s up to you. It’s just generally encouraged.”</p>
<p>“Put him in the good pile. We’ll see. This one looks interesting,” he remarks, peering closely at the file he’s holding. “Beauxbâtons. He’s been accepted to the Defence program in York, <em>and</em> to Auror training in Paris, but he says he would like some practical credits first. And he was honours in Defence last year… Luuk Erkens,” he adds, pronouncing the name slowly. “Dutch, I think?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I know him!” Gabrielle announces, reaching out, and Harry hands her the file to look through. “Luuk was in my year. He got into York, that’s so great. They’re very selective.”</p>
<p>“Put him in the good pile then.”</p>
<p>By the end of the afternoon, they’ve narrowed it down to thirteen candidates. Nine former Beauxbâtons students, three from the Calypso Academy in Malta, and the Durmstrang boy.</p>
<p>“Will you set up interviews next?” Gabrielle asks, leaning back in her chair and stretching her neck. “There isn’t much time, but you know if they show up on such short notice, they <em>really</em> want the position. You should prepare questions to ask–”</p>
<p>“Oh, there’s no need to ask questions,” Harry assures her.</p>
<p>“How are you going to choose, then?”</p>
<p>“I’ll duel with them. And whoever impresses me will get the position.”</p>
<p>“And if no one impresses you?” Gabrielle asks, grinning.</p>
<p>Harry shrugs. “Then I guess I’ll have to ask questions.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As Gabrielle said, the selection is on such short notice that Harry is almost certain barely any of the applicants will come. They <em>must</em> have found something else by now – be it another assistant position somewhere else, or an undergraduate program – and he figures he will simply pick two out of whoever bothers to show up on Saturday morning. As it turns out, however, twelve of the thirteen are present. They’ve been greeted by Gabrielle, who had nothing planned for the day and once more offered to help, and they are seated in the corridor near the classroom he’s reserved when he arrives. Three of them seem to know each other and are talking quietly amongst themselves – probably some of the former Beauxbâtons students. There is only one girl, sitting silently, looking down at the floor in front of her. Gabrielle is standing by, holding the list of names and chatting with a tall, light-haired boy Harry supposes must be Luuk Erkens.</p>
<p>“Good morning,” Harry greets them in English with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “I’m Professor Potter.” He nearly chuckles at hearing himself say it for the first time. “Thank you so much for coming. I’m aware this is very last minute, and I’m very grateful that you all agreed to waste your Saturday morning by coming all the way here. I’m in need of two assistants this year, so there are two positions available. Miss Delacour is only here to assist me temporarily. I would like to see you one by one. Please wait out here until your name is called.”</p>
<p>As he enters with Gabrielle, Harry hears one of the Beauxbâtons boys whisper, “I’m <em>telling</em> you, it’s duelling. That’s a lab room, <em>not</em> his office!”</p>
<p>Harry and Gabrielle share a grin once they’re out of sight. The class is, in fact, a lab room, with some benches in rows along the walls and a wide space in the centre.</p>
<p>“Good turnout,” Gabrielle comments. “I didn’t expect so many to come. They’re nervous, you have no idea. They were all fidgety before you arrived. I hope that Calypso girl is good. You should have seen those idiots sniggering at her earlier,” she adds, shaking her head.</p>
<p>“Miss Farrugia, is it?” Harry asks, looking at his own list of names before folding it and slipping it back into his pocket. “Her application looked very promising, but we’ll see. Alright, let’s begin. Call in the first one.”</p>
<p>The first one on the list is the Durmstrang boy, Amundsen. He is very tall and very blond, and from his application Harry knows he is highly intelligent, but he looks uncertain when he walks into the room and sees Harry waiting for him in the centre of it with his wand out.</p>
<p>“This will be simple enough,” Harry informs him. “I’m going to attack you, and you will attempt to defend yourself. Two minutes. No spells above NEWT level, and standard duelling rules apply. All good?”</p>
<p>Amundsen seems to hesitate, and then he nods, taking his wand out with shaky hands and getting into regular duelling stance. Harry attacks him with a simple but rapid stunner first, which Amundsen deflects with an almost lazy movement of his wand, and maybe Harry gets his hopes up too fast. He shoots a nonverbal disarming spell at the boy a few seconds later, and Amundsen falls flat onto his back from the shock of it, as if the ground had been tugged from under his feet. His wand flies straight into Harry’s hand.</p>
<p>“Well that was fast,” Gabrielle comments after Amundsen has been thanked and dismissed. “Poor boy. I think he’ll feel that tomorrow.”</p>
<p>Next is a boy from Calypso named Costis, and nearly the very same thing happens. Except this one doesn’t even manage to deflect the stunner. Harry casts a quick cushioning charm as he’s falling backwards before casting the counter-curse and dismissing him.</p>
<p>Gabrielle’s friend Luuk is next, and he seems quite unsure when he walks in, probably because he’s seen the first two boys leave the room dejectedly after spending barely a minute inside. His uncertainty vanishes as soon as the duel starts, however, and he deflects the stunner easily, then avoids the disarming spell well enough. The two minutes are nearly over by the time Harry manages to send him flying with a mild, nonverbal <em>Expulso</em>. </p>
<p>“That was very well done, Mr Erkens,” Harry says, helping him to his feet. “Wait outside, please.”</p>
<p>Gabrielle grins at him as he leaves, and she calls the next one in – a Spanish boy from Beauxbâtons who lasts about a minute or so before being hit squared in the chest with an <em>Incarcerous</em>.</p>
<p>Next up is Lisa Farrugia, a short girl with curly blonde hair tied into a thick bun, who instantly reminds Harry of Hermione by the serious and determined look on her face. By then, Harry has resorted to using milder strength on his spells to avoid injuring anyone, so he is taken aback when she sends a swift <em>Depulso</em> his way after avoiding the first stunner. Her casting is so powerful he grins in surprise as he deflects it back to her and immediately casts a stinging hex straight at her chest. There is no way she can stop this one, he thinks, but the shielding charm she erects Harry can only describe as absolute perfection. From behind it, she shots a nonverbal spell his way, which turns out to be a partial stunner that catches Harry on the shoulder before he can move to avoid it. He throws a flurry of wandless spells at her with his still functioning left hand, unable to pierce her shielding charm, before finally managing to swerve a disarming spell underneath the shield and catch her in the stomach. She falls flat on her bottom, her wand rattling to the floor. The whole thing lasts barely twenty seconds, but Harry can’t move his right arm and is thoroughly out of breath.</p>
<p>“Why did you attack me?” he asks after casting the counter-curse on his arm, flexing his fingers and wrist with a wince. “I said to defend yourself.”</p>
<p>The girl stands again, grabbing her wand from the floor and dusting off her jeans. Then she shrugs. “I figured you’d probably pick one of those pricks out there and I didn’t really have a chance because I’m a girl and I’m not from Beauxbâtons. But since I came all the way here, and I’ve never had the opportunity to duel an Auror before, I thought I’d see what I could do,” she says.</p>
<p>“<em>Former</em> Auror,” Harry corrects. “Please wait outside while I see the rest of the candidates, and then you will be provided with all the information you might need regarding the living accommodations and with the terms of your contract for the year. I’d like you to be settled and ready to start on Wednesday, if possible. Miss Delacour, please inform the gentlemen that one of the positions has been filled.”</p>
<p>“Are you serious?” Farrugia asks, gaping at him. “I <em>attacked</em> you.”</p>
<p>Harry grins. “Yeah, you did.”</p>
<p>“She very nearly kicked your ass,” Gabrielle remarks.</p>
<p>“I’m rusty, I think. I’ve sort of been spending three years lazing about.”</p>
<p>Harry goes through the rest of the candidates pretty fast, none of them managing to impress him much, and they are all dismissed. Ultimately the second position is offered to Gabrielle’s friend Luuk Erkens, who has been waiting in the corridor throughout and has stricken up a conversation with Lisa Farrugia in the meantime. When the evaluations are done and over with, Harry congratulates them and Gabrielle, of course, happily suggests that they all go out to lunch together.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Everything is much easier with Luuk and Lisa to help, and Harry becomes more and more confident with his teaching plans. He has often wondered, these past few weeks, if maybe he is going in too hard, if he should back down on certain notions that might possibly be too advanced for the students. Even if the curriculum was accepted, the doubt remains, and he expresses these thoughts to his new assistants. They are impressed and eager to work with him, and they assure him that the students will be on board as well. As soon as they are comfortably settled in their assigned quarters at the school, they spend nearly all their time in Harry’s office, helping him elaborating the lab plans for each year. Harry has decided to divide their workload in half, like many professors do, making Luuk responsible for groups A and Lisa for B, so that they’ll have less students to oversee but can still teach each year. He makes it clear that they can cooperate and ask him for help whenever necessary. This is a team effort.</p>
<p>Luuk is a nerd to rival even Hermione and an astounding source of knowledge. He’s already read most of the books on Harry’s shelves – some of them undergraduate and even graduate level material – and immediately asks to borrow those he hasn’t. They could talk theory for hours if Lisa didn’t scold them to get back to the work at hand. Luuk comes from The Hague in the Netherlands and is from a well-off Pureblood family, but he is hard-working and determined, not the type of young man to be carried on his family’s shoulders. From what Harry can understand without asking for too much detail, Luuk’s father is a political figure of some sort who would rather his son follow in his footsteps, but Luuk has never had a mind for it and insisted on going his own way. Their relationship seems to be strained for that reason.</p>
<p>It’s clear enough to Harry that Lisa despises Luuk in the beginning. Well, maybe <em>despises</em> is too harsh a word, but she definitely is wary of him. As opposed to his, Lisa’s family isn’t so fortunate. She is from Malta, and though French is her first language through her mother who is from Corsica, and she passed the Beauxbâtons entrance exam with flying colours when she was eleven, she couldn’t manage to attend. Being one of four children raised by a single mother, there was no way her family could afford the tuition, no matter how gifted she was, and she had to settle for the Calypso Academy. Hence, she seems to have developed for Beauxbâtons a mix of resentment, longing, and regret. She is incredibly frank and never afraid to speak her mind, even to Harry, and she gradually warms up to Luuk, once she sees he isn’t one of those rich boys who hold their family’s money and status over everyone’s heads.</p>
<p>As different as they are, the two of them get along swimmingly. Harry often finds them arguing, but it is always respectfully, sometimes playfully, and they seem to take pleasure in challenging each other.</p>
<p>“I bet you ten galleons they start dating before Christmas,” Gabrielle tells Harry one morning at breakfast.</p>
<p>Harry smirks and shakes his head. “Halloween,” he claims, and they shake on it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As August draws to an end, more and more teachers start arriving and the small dining room seems to be a little fuller every morning. The assistants, though they have their own dining area in their own wing of the castle, often come eat here as well, sitting together or with their assigned professor, discussing last minute details. On the 30<sup>th</sup>, Harry is positively nervous when he enters, but there is no sign of Snape. Still, his heart is in his throat as he sits and helps himself to eggs and some toast and jam.</p>
<p>This is stupid. He doesn’t even know if Snape usually eats here. He might very well be the type to ask for food to be brought to his quarters directly. And he might not even have arrived yet. Gabrielle said he was to return on the 30<sup>th</sup>, but it might be later today, and she didn’t even seem sure about the exact day either. Harry <em>has</em> to get a bloody hold of himself.</p>
<p>“Potter?” a voice asks, and his head snaps up to see a man standing next to his table.</p>
<p>It isn’t Snape, but Harry tries his best not to stare and not to look flustered. The man looks to be in his early thirties, and is tall and slim, with broad shoulders. He has pale brown hair, pushed back from a handsome, tanned face, and very blue eyes. He looks like he’s just returned from a trip somewhere warm and sunny. He wears a pale blue linen shirt that make his eyes and his tan stand out.</p>
<p>All Harry can find it in himself to say is, “Hello.”</p>
<p>“I am Michel Follet, the teacher of Transfiguration. Can I sit?”</p>
<p>“Oh, nice to meet you. You can sit, of course.” Harry smiles, gesturing to the chair in front of him. He is alone this morning, Luuk and Lisa having decided to head to Nuée for brunch with Gabrielle and a few of the other assistants.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Professor Follet says as he takes the seat and helps himself to some breakfast. “You can tu me. And I hope I can do the same,” he adds with a grin.</p>
<p>Harry winces at the horrible translation. He’s been speaking English with everyone lately and has become unused to the spell’s usual failings. The formal you, <em>again</em>. “You’re welcome to, but I’m afraid I have no control over what comes out of my mouth,” he explains, showing the man the translation spell on his wrist.</p>
<p>Follet, who is first frowning at his words, raises an eyebrow of surprise at the sight of the bracelet. “No problem,” he assures Harry before reaching for his wrist. “I can see?”</p>
<p>Unsure, Harry lets him stare at the bracelet closely, turning it every which way to look at the runes. The man’s hands are warm and soft on his skin, and Harry hopes he isn’t blushing.</p>
<p>“Beautiful spell,” Follet says softly. “Did you do it yourself?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. It took nearly three weeks. I could just cast a regular spell whenever I need it, of course, but I figured if I wanted to use it around Muggles, it was easier to have something fixed that I could control without a wand.”</p>
<p>“Ah, it is activated by touch. Brilliant,” Follet concludes, finally letting go of Harry’s wrist and looking piercingly at him afterwards. “Just two minutes and I’m already impressed, Potter,” he reveals with a conspiratorial smile.</p>
<p>Harry holds his gaze for a moment, then smiles back and says, “Harry.”</p>
<p>Professor Follet’s grin widens. “Harry,” he repeats slowly. “Call me Michel, then.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The first week of September rushes by, as teachers and assistants alike hurry to make the final preparations to their class plans. The official schedules are distributed, allowing Harry, Luuk, and Lisa to arrange their weeks accordingly around the lessons and the labs. Each day, Harry has three lessons, two free periods and one period of assigned office hours where he is required to be available for whoever might need his assistance. The labs for the seventh and sixth years are both on Friday, and he will hold his seminar for the honours group on Tuesday nights. He has his weekends free.</p>
<p>With his lesson plans all finished and his assistants free to do as they please until classes start, Harry has taken to spending some time with Michel, as well as the History of Magic teacher. At twenty-eight, Anna Visser was the youngest teacher here before Harry’s arrival. She has only been teaching for two years and has a lot of helpful advice on how to adapt to life at Beauxbâtons. The three of them are in the habit of eating nearly every meal together, always occupying the same table in the dining room. Professor Dominici smiles one morning as he passes by and remarks loudly, “Of course, beautiful young people are always together.”</p>
<p>All in all, life would be perfect, if it wasn’t for the reminder of Snape hovering around Harry’s mind. There has been no sign of him, but there also has been no sign of Gabrielle lately, which is enough to convince Harry that Snape is surely back. It is finally confirmed by a conversation he overhears between Professor Romilly and the Herbology teacher, Professor Vilaró, one evening at dinner.</p>
<p>“He came back last week.”</p>
<p>“Oh, really? I started to wonder. Not a trace of him.”</p>
<p>“He came to bring me the plants I had asked him for, and he locked himself in his laboratory,” Vilaró says around a mouthful of rice. “It’s a bit last minute this year.”</p>
<p>Harry, who is sitting at the next table with Anna and Michel, keeps silent as he eats. Snape, last minute? Impossible. The man is definitely avoiding him then, and part of him is angered at the thought. <em>Harry</em> is the one who should be doing the avoiding. <em>He</em> is the one who declared his love and was insulted and humiliated. But then again, Snape is the one who ran away, who was unwilling to face him afterwards. Isn’t that exactly what he’s been doing these past six years, avoiding Harry? But it was easy before. What will it be like now? He can’t hide from Harry forever.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The students start arriving on Friday morning, and all through Saturday, with the last of them on Sunday afternoon. There are carriages ferrying them from the train station up to the school all weekend long, and the castle, which had been quiet for barely a week after the end of the summer school madness, quickly becomes agitated again. Michel tells Harry that he’s heard some students talking eagerly about the Defensive Magic classes and how they can’t wait to meet their new professor, the famous Harry Potter. Harry, who by now has managed to stop blushing whenever Michel addresses him, only grins.</p>
<p>“They shouldn’t have too high expectations,” he adds.</p>
<p>Michel shakes his head. “I am sure they will not be disappointed,” he says softly, and Harry blushes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Monday morning arrives at last. Harry hasn’t had much sleep, but from the anticipation this time, not from the dread of possibly running into Snape in the corridor or in the dining room, or anywhere in the castle for that matter. There’s still no sign of him at breakfast. Thank Merlin for that, because Harry doesn’t need another reason to be fidgety and anxious. He’s done this before, he reminds himself. What was Dumbledore’s Army if it wasn’t teaching?</p>
<p>He looks the part as well, and it’s a consolation to be able to fit in with the other teachers despite how young he is. Before he left Paris, Clémence made sure to take him to a tailor and have him fitted for blazers and waistcoats. It might be too warm for robes, she said, and not many teachers wear them anyway. Plus, he looks hot in a waistcoat, she added with a grin, and students are sure to be all over him. Harry insisted that wasn’t the point, but she wouldn’t listen. He chose a dark grey one today, with a white shirt underneath and a simple black tie. He’s tried to do something with his hair, to no avail.</p>
<p>There is a welcoming statement in the great hall before the start of the first lessons, and though all the teachers and assistants attend, Snape is nowhere to be seen. The <em>nerve</em> of him! Does he think he’s too good to be there? Harry peers at the rest of the staff while Madame Maxime’s booming voice addresses the students, looking for the darkly clad man, for his scowling face, but there is not a trace.</p>
<p>The crowd of over five hundred students spreads before him in a sea of pale blue uniforms and smiling faces. Harry is the object of many curious stares, and he does his best not to be intimidated and tries to smile back whenever a student meets his eye. He nods politely when he is introduced as a new member of the staff but was not expecting the burst of applause that greets the announcement. He can’t help but laugh in embarrassment as Michel pats him on the back encouragingly. </p>
<p>His first class is the seventh years, as if he doesn’t already have enough to be nervous about. At least both Luuk and Lisa are there with him today to help if he needs them. Harry’s classroom is a lovely old auditorium with a whole wall of windows and this morning the room is glowing with golden light. There are five rows of tiered seats arranged in a half-circle and a desk in the front, with a large blackboard that takes up the whole length of the room. There are two doors, one at the front of the class, and one at the back of the room that doesn’t look like it’s ever used at all. Lisa and Luuk sit in the first row while Harry greets the students himself, taking their names and checking them off his class list before they take their seats. When the bell rings, announcing the beginning of class, all forty students are present, and he shuts the door. They fall silent almost at once, and Harry heads to the front, feeling all eyes on him. The students have taken out their textbooks and notebooks, inkpots and quills ready to use. They all have a copy of the syllabus that was approved a month ago.</p>
<p>“Good morning. I’m Professor Potter. Welcome to your first Defensive Magic lesson of the year,” he begins with a friendly smile, trying his best not to look completely terrified. “As you might have been told, or as you might be able to notice yourself, I don’t speak French. I’ll be using a translation spell to teach. If there is any problem, or if you have difficulties understanding me, please inform me so and I’ll try to rephrase or to say things differently. Does that work for everyone?”</p>
<p>He receives a general flurry of positive answers, nods, smiles, and sounds of approval. They seem impatient to begin and already interested in each and every one of his words. Harry feels his confidence already building up.</p>
<p>“I assume most of you have taken a look at the curriculum already. If you haven’t, don’t worry, I’ll talk more about it in a little bit. First, I would like to introduce my assistants for this year, Miss Farrugia and Mr Erkens.” He gestures to the two of them sitting in the first row, and they turn to wave and acknowledge the students. “The two of them will be available to answer any questions or to help you in any way they can if I am unavailable to do so myself. But mostly, you seventh year students are lucky enough to be mine to do with as I please.”</p>
<p>There is laughter and a whooping sound coming from a small group of students on the left and Harry can’t help but grin.</p>
<p>“It’s a hard year for you all, I’m aware. It’s a stressful year, but I want you to be assured that I’ll make it so this year goes as smoothly as possible and that you succeed. We will be meeting here every Monday morning, and again on Fridays for the lab, at the assigned room on your schedules. Any questions?”</p>
<p>They generally shake their heads, some looking away shyly when he turns his gaze to them, and Harry wonders if maybe they are as intimidated by him as he is by them.</p>
<p>“Defensive Magic,” he announces before pausing for a moment.</p>
<p>It might have been a trick of the light, but for a second Harry swears he’s seen something moving towards the back of the room, where the morning light can’t quite reach. He ignores it and turns his attention back to the students.</p>
<p>“I studied at Hogwarts, and at Hogwarts this class is called Defence Against the Dark Arts. It touches defensive spells, but also how to defend yourself from all sorts of dark creatures. When asked to teach here, I was surprised to see that most of those creatures that I studied in Defence class, you study in Magizoology. And then I was excited because that meant I could really concentrate on the magical aspect, which is what I’m more interested in. I can leave the Grindylows and the Ghouls and the Trolls to Professor Dominici and I can focus here on teaching you how to use Magic to protect yourself from Magic. Because that is essentially what Defensive Magic is. Magic against Magic. But what <em>is</em> Magic exactly?”</p>
<p>The question is met with silence. Some students grin in surprise and Harry grins back.</p>
<p>“I see some smiles and that’s okay. I understand you’re perplexed. It’s a strange question to ask a group of seventh years. But humour me. What is Magic? Pretend you’re trying to explain to a Muggle who knows nothing about this? What would you say?”</p>
<p>Harry manages to hide his relief when a few hands raise. He points to a girl at random, sitting near the front. “Yes?”</p>
<p>“Magic is a supernatural force that changes certain aspects of the world,” she answers in a perfect Hermione voice that brings a fond smile to Harry’s face.</p>
<p>“Yes, perfect. Straight from the book.” Harry waves his hand and the words appear on the blackboard behind him as he speaks them, “<em>Magic is a supernatural force that changes certain aspects of the world at a fundamental level</em>. No need to write that down, you know that already,” he adds. “Anyone in here studied Muggle sciences?”</p>
<p>A few hands raise briefly, and there are nods here and there in the room.</p>
<p>“If you study Muggle sciences, you will learn about all the different types of energies that surround us – kinetic, thermal, electric, nuclear, to name just a few. Energy is all around us, and we have developed a number of tools to detect it and use it to make our lives easier. Some forms of energies are easier to detect and to use than others. Some are more complex and require special tools to detect them and to tap into them. From a scientific point of view, we could say that Magic is a type of energy as well, because this is exactly what this definition implies,” he adds, gesturing to the words on the board. “A force that influences the world at fundamental levels. A type of energy that is so hard to detect that only a few of us humans can detect it and use it. Magic as energy can infiltrate an object and manipulate matter. It can meddle with gravity and with all sorts of other energies. But Magic, as opposed to the other energies, cancels the natural laws of science, which is why it amazes or scares Muggles so much. It defies their world and their ideas of how nature works.”</p>
<p>Harry pauses for a moment, searching the faces for any sign that he might be delving too far outside comfortable territory, but he is met with fascinated faces.</p>
<p>“If Magic <em>is</em> energy, like any type of energy, it has to have laws and to follow some rules. And as it happens, it <em>does</em> have rules. You all know these. The rule of creation. You can conjure and duplicate, but it will never be as good as the real thing. The rule of vanishment. You can vanish but what you vanish will never really vanish, it will still exist <em>somewhere</em>. The rule of expansion. You can enlarge and expand whatever you will, but only up to a certain point until it becomes unstable and eventually explodes. This isn’t news to you. From a scientific viewpoint, magical energy is ambient and we, as witches and wizards, utilise it with conduits, being wands and incantations. I won’t go into how those conduits work exactly because we’ll be sitting here until next year.”</p>
<p>There is quiet laughter. This time, there definitely is a movement towards the back of the room, but Harry pretends he hasn’t seen it, and continues on with his lesson.</p>
<p>“What else do we know about Magic? It is inborn, hereditary,” he summarises more rapidly. “It is a dominant gene. There are different brands of it. Human magic, elf magic, fairies magic, to name a few. Wizards can use it, Muggles cannot. Magic has limitations… Now, some people believe this theory, that Magic is energy, as I just explained, but others have a different explanation for it. Some believe that Magic is drawn from the human soul. But the thing is, we <em>all</em> have a soul. Muggles have a soul too. They are people, they are human. They have fears and hopes and dreams. Essentially, they are like us. So why would only witches and wizards be able to use their soul to perform magic? That doesn’t make any sense. Which is how theoreticians came up with the term <em>magical core</em>. According to them, we all have souls, but only <em>we</em>, witches and wizards, have a magical core. A sort of soul energy, if you will. As a witch or a wizard, this magical core is a part of you, of your essence as a person. It’s something you’re born with and it develops as you grow, like a sort of… invisible organ. If you have this magical core and you learn how to use it, you can extract its energy to influence the world around you. This would explain accidental magic. Young witches and wizards have a core, but they haven’t yet learned how to properly extract its energy. They get emotional and uncontrolled bursts of magic happen. It also explains how your emotions can change your spellcasting. If you’re tired, you won’t be able to cast to your full potential. If you’re in pain, if you’re suffering emotionally, your spells are weaker as well. Your magical core is connected to your whole being. Physical and emotional. Have I lost you yet?”</p>
<p>Harry is pretty sure you could hear a fly all the way across the room. In the front row, Lisa and Luuk are grinning.</p>
<p>“Now, all this is theoretical. Whether Magic comes from the world or from ourselves is as of yet unproven. It could be either and many signs point to the possibility that it could be both. The reason I’m bringing up the idea of the magical core is because it’s a theory that is interesting when it comes to our subject of Defensive Magic. Can anyone tell me what the difference is between what we call Light Magic and Dark Magic?”</p>
<p>A boy raises his hand hesitantly towards the back.</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“Intention,” the boy says uncertainly.</p>
<p>“Yes. That’s <em>exactly</em> what I was looking for. We tend to divide Magic as black and white areas. Light Magic is good, Dark Magic is bad. Personally, I don’t like the term Light Magic, so I’ll just be calling it <em>Neutral</em> from now on. You’ll be familiar with the term if you’ve done a bit of reading in Bisset’s book. Most Magic is Neutral. It’s just a spell that you cast, and it can be good or bad depending on what you decide to do with it. Nothing will change the nature of the spell. It’s just a spell. <em>Accio</em> is a spell no matter if you use it to summon a quill or a… vial of poison. Your intention to poison someone or to write something down won’t affect your spell.” Harry pauses and shakes his head. “That’s a really bad example, but you know what I mean. <em>Accio</em> is Neutral Magic. Whatever you learn in Charms class or Transfiguration class is Neutral Magic. Some theoreticians will say that <em>this</em> particular type of Magic, Neutral Magic, is magical energy.</p>
<p>“<em>Some</em> spells, however, take their form solely from the intention behind them. You can say the word perfectly and wave your wand perfectly, but it won’t work if you don’t <em>mean</em> it. Unforgivables work that way. They are intended to cause harm. The intention itself is part of the spell. This aspect contradicts the theory of magical energy because this intention comes from you, from your magical core, if there <em>is</em> such a thing, not from what is around you. You don’t tap into energy, you tap into <em>yourself</em>. You can’t just wave your wand and say the words, you need something <em>more</em>.”</p>
<p>Harry pauses. The first girl, the one who reminds him of Hermione, has raised her hand again.</p>
<p>“Yes?” he asks, nodding in her direction.</p>
<p>She hesitates. “So… you mean it’s not Dark, it’s just… different?”</p>
<p>Harry grins. “That’s exactly what I’m getting at. The spells that we call Dark Magic, are a completely different type of magic because they’re cast differently, and they come from a different place. You can’t curse someone if you don’t want to. It’s pure emotional intent, and that’s why they’re so powerful. So, we end with two different types of magic. Neutral Magic, and what Bisset, in the textbook that I have asked you to get, doesn’t call Dark Magic, but instead, <em>Intentional</em> Magic.”</p>
<p>Harry waves his hand and the words <em>Neutral Magic</em> and <em>Intentional Magic</em> appear on the board behind him. </p>
<p>“And Bisset calls it that because it’s a class of magic that doesn’t comprise <em>only</em> of the dark spells like the Unforgivables and the spells used to cause harm to others, but because to <em>deflect</em> those dark spells, those spells cast with intention, Neutral Magic is not enough. You need the <em>same</em> type of spell. Only Intentional Magic can deflect Intentional Magic. So Defensive Magic, in its <em>essence</em>, is the same type of Magic as Dark Magic. The intention is different, but the intention is there, and it’s the core of the spell. You can’t cast a <em>Protego</em> if you don’t mean it. You can’t cast a <em>Stupefy</em> if you don’t mean it. That’s why Defensive Magic is so hard to master, because we’ve been taught, from the first days, that all we need to cast a spell properly is to wave our wand and say the words and we’re good to go. We haven’t been taught these two distinctive types of magic and spellcasting. If you try to perform Defensive Magic the same way you would a regular charm, you’ll never get anywhere. A Defensive Magic spell will never reach its full effect if it is performed like Neutral Magic. To truly master, you have to cast it like you would a Dark Magic spell. Not necessarily by using harmful intent, but by tapping into your magical core. <em>This</em> is what I’ll be teaching you this year. How to cast differently and more efficiently. How to include this intentional component to your spellcasting.”</p>
<p>There is a flutter of excited whispers throughout the classroom, and Harry looks up once again to the dark corner of the room, near the door. The shape that was there has either disappeared or is now blending into the shadows.</p>
<p>“Alright, I’ll let you go early today, because I feel like I might have caused a few brain injuries. Let’s look at the curriculum briefly.”</p>
<p>Everyone takes their class plans and Harry delves into a week-by-week review of the spells and concepts they’ll be exploring, answering questions here and there on the evaluations. There is still half an hour left to the class when he announces that they are free to go.</p>
<p>“I would like you to please read the intro to Bisset’s <em>Advanced Approaches in Defensive Magical Techniques</em> for Friday’s lab, and also the first part of chapter nine on Intentional Magic <em>if</em> you have time. That will clarify some of the notions I talked about, if you’re still a little confused about them. Those of you who are going to take the honours seminar tomorrow night, please try to read chapter one of Barkovsky’s book in preparation. Thank you all. Have a great first day.”</p>
<p>The students start leaving, chatting amongst themselves, some saying goodbye when they pass by Harry. Once or twice a few of them seem to want to stop and talk to him directly, but they eventually seem to lose confidence and they walk away.</p>
<p>“I think that went well,” Harry tells his assistants once everyone is gone.</p>
<p>“It was brilliant, Professor,” Lisa says. “We’re going to get coffee before the next lesson. Are you coming with us?”</p>
<p>Harry shakes his head. “Oh, thank you but I want to review my notes a bit.”</p>
<p>He shuts the classroom door behind them after they leave and heads towards the windows. He struggles a bit, but finally manages to open one, and a nice, warm wind rushes in. On the other side of the foggy old glass is a beautiful view of the mountains to the east. Harry fishes into his pocket and takes out a pack of Marlboro Red. He lights one at once, inhales deeply, and blows the smoke outside into the warm wind. At the back of the classroom, as he knew it would, the shape has moved and is approaching him, coming down through the rows of seats. Harry can see it from the corner of his eye.</p>
<p>“What is <em>Magic</em>?” Snape says slowly, his deep voice breaking the stillness of the room. “<em>Really</em>, Potter?”</p>
<p>Harry’s throat feels raw, and he pauses for a second before turning to the man. He was planning to snap at him for spying on his lesson, for sneaking into the shadows, for his rudeness, but all irritation leaves him at the sight of Snape.</p>
<p>The man has changed. Gone are the billowing robes, replaced by a simple but elegant black suit. His shirt has a higher collar though, and a cravat is carefully tied around his neck, surely to hide the scars from the snake attack. He looks shorter than Harry remembers. Maybe because Harry has grown a little himself, or maybe it’s just because he isn’t intimidated by Snape anymore. What else could the man do or say to him that would be worse than what he said six years ago?  He looks healthy, his skin no longer pale and sickly looking, and his hair is shorter. As he stares at Harry with those dark eyes of his, Harry’s heart tightens painfully, but he only turns back towards the window.</p>
<p>“Don’t you have students to attend to?” he asks the man softly before taking a drag of his cigarette.</p>
<p>“As it happens, I have a free period this morning,” Snape informs, now standing right in front of Harry and frowning at him. Harry might have grown, but the man is still taller and looking down on him. “You’re not allowed to smoke in here,” he scolds, the morning light casting a sort of golden glow to his face.</p>
<p>Harry scoffs. “What will you do? Get me fired? That’s what you want, isn’t it?” He’s tried to make his tone snappish but doesn’t quite manage it.</p>
<p>Snape is silent for a moment, and when he speaks again, it is almost, <em>almost</em> apologetic, like offering a truce of some sort, like laying his weapons down. “That’s not what I want, Potter.”</p>
<p>Harry sighs, looking at a flock of starlings dancing over the hills outside. “What is it then?”</p>
<p>“This school matters to me, these students,” Snape begins slowly. “There are standards to–”</p>
<p>Harry turns to him at last, throws him a dark glare. “Oh, you want to make sure I’m doing my job properly, is it? I’m not your bloody student anymore, Snape,” he hisses angrily, embarrassingly defensive. “I was hired here! They judged me good enough, they said my material was good enough. I have experience, maybe not in teaching per se, but I know what I’m doing.”</p>
<p>“I <em>know</em> you do, Potter, I only meant–”</p>
<p>“You meant <em>what</em>?”</p>
<p>“Well, for starters, that translation spell is abhorrent,” Snape finally declares.</p>
<p>Harry shakes his head disbelievingly. “What is it to <em>you</em>? The students understand, that’s what matters.”</p>
<p>Snape is silent for an instant. “You cannot smoke in here,” he repeats, as if he can’t find anything else to say.</p>
<p>Harry crushes what’s left of his cigarette into the windowsill roughly. “<em>Look</em>,” he says angrily. “I didn’t know you were a teacher here when I took the job. I <em>didn’t</em> know, okay? I only found out two days before I left Paris. <em>They</em> recruited me. <em>They</em> offered me the job. I didn’t come here to make your life miserable. I came here because I wanted a change and it seemed like an amazing opportunity. I didn’t come here for <em>you</em>, if that’s what you’re worried about. I just want to do my job. And I don’t need <em>your</em> permission for that.”</p>
<p>“You’re right, Potter,” Snape says after a moment.</p>
<p>Harry is almost taken aback. He was expecting Snape to sneer at him, to snap at him, to argue, but certainly not to give him reason. The way the man is looking at him now, expression unreadable, eyes unreadable, reminds Harry of standing on the edge of the black lake. Peaceful but ominous.</p>
<p>Harry looks away, pulling the window shut. “Just do your teaching and I’ll do mine,” he says coldly. “Does that work for you?”</p>
<p>“It does,” the man replies after a long moment. Finally, he turns to walk away, but then he turns back again, seems to hesitate. “It was a good lesson, Potter,” he adds. “Fine work.”</p>
<p>He shuts the door behind him after he leaves. Harry lets out a shaky breath, shoves his trembling hands into his pockets and watches the starlings dance through the dusty window.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>If Snape really had been avoiding him before, Harry sees him <em>everywhere</em> after this first encounter. He is there at every meal in the dining room, choosing to sit always at the same table, right next to where Harry is used to sitting with Michel and Anna. He often happens to be wandering the halls near Harry’s auditorium in between classes – even though his own classroom is four floors down – though Harry pretends not to notice his silhouette whenever it passes by his door. He is also there when Harry goes out into the yard for a cigarette after lunch. He hasn’t been spying on any more lessons though, for which Harry is grateful. And he hasn’t tried to engage conversation again.</p>
<p>Harry does his best to ignore him. Fortunately, he has his lessons to keep him busy. As the second week of classes arrives, and then the third, it’s easy to immerse himself in his subject and forget all about Snape and whatever he might be up to. If the students first seem hesitant to approach Harry, they quickly gain confidence and he always has at least one in his office during his official hours, and sometimes they stop by during his free time to ask if he has a moment to talk. Harry particularly appreciates the Tuesday night seminars with his small group of seventh year honours students. There are only six, so Harry holds those meetings in his office, and Lisa and Luuk sometimes participate when they’re not too busy working on their own assignments. The seminars often go over the allotted time and they find themselves chatting until nearly eleven at night, until Harry takes it upon himself to be reasonable and sends everyone to bed.</p>
<p>Tuesdays are quiet days for Harry. His first period is free, then he has office hours during second period, then another free period after lunch. A light day to compensate for his evening seminar. On the last Tuesday of September, he ends up having lunch alone in his office, going over some notes for the honours group. He’s had students coming in and out of his office all morning and he really needs to get this work done as soon as possible because he promised to be available for a small group of first years around one thirty. It’s quite rare for him to be alone in here, and he finds himself enjoying it.</p>
<p>The book he’s selected for the seminars, Barkovsky’s <em>Dark Magic: Adaptation and Awareness</em>, is quite advanced, and he thought it risky at first to introduce these concepts to seventh year students, but the results so far exceed Harry’s expectations. It’s all about developing a sense of your surroundings and adapting your own magic to that of your opponents during a duel, and to the outside world as well. It’s what Harry teaches the regular seventh years, but in a more advanced, more demanding form, delving much deeper into the theories and introducing the honours students to similar ideas and practices. They do very little practical work, mostly sharing thoughts and discussing concepts. Harry has given each of his six students a specific topic that they will need to explore in a final essay to be handed in at the end of the year.</p>
<p>Harry was happy to discover, when school started, that the music classroom is right across from his office, and there is always someone in there practicing, even during mealtimes, and often until late at night. It’s a pianist today, and Harry finds himself pausing in his reading to listen to the music for a while. It must be an older student, judging by the skills of the musician. It’s a piece by Debussy, Harry thinks, but he can’t be sure. The notes succeed themselves in a swift, gentle and beautiful melody.</p>
<p>He hasn’t had much sleep last night, and there’s a numbing headache behind his left eye. He often stays up late working on his lessons or consulting with his assistants. But mostly he just can’t seem to fall asleep until the early hours of morning, his mind filled with uncontrollable thoughts. And when he <em>does</em> sleep, it is fitfully, with wisps of dreams dancing behind his eyelids, echoes of indecipherable words…</p>
<p>“Not sleeping on the job, are you, Potter?” Snape’s voice says.</p>
<p>Harry opens his eyes, which he hadn’t noticed he had closed, and raises his head from where it’s been resting on his palm to look at the man standing in the doorway. Snape is leaning against the frame, staring at him leisurely, and Harry wonders how long exactly he has been there, observing him.</p>
<p>He clears his throat, trying not to look flustered, and turns the page of his notebook. “Technically I’m not on the job right now. I can very well sleep if I want to,” he says. “But I wasn’t. Not that it’s any of your business.”</p>
<p>“No need to be so hostile. I come in peace,” the man says almost softly as he steps into the room.</p>
<p>“Oh, do you? Has your lurking about finally come to an end? Have you decided that I’m allowed to be here now, or do you need some more spying on me to make sure?” Harry asks, refusing to look at him and contemplating his notes instead.</p>
<p>Snape scoffs, and he takes a seat in the armchair in front of Harry’s desk. Harry raises an eyebrow at the nerve of him!</p>
<p>“I have been thinking about your problem,” Snape reveals.</p>
<p>Harry sighs, rubbing his eye, where the headache is throbbing. “My <em>problem</em>? And what is that?”</p>
<p>“Your complete lack of skills in the French language.”</p>
<p>Harry snaps his notebook shut. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake! I <em>manage</em>!”</p>
<p>“Yes, by relying on that ridiculous trinket.” Snape eyes his bracelet disdainfully. “Let me give you some insights, Potter, on the deficiencies of translation spells.”</p>
<p>“I <em>know</em> about those,” Harry protests. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Snape.” He stares darkly at the man, who actually seems to be trying not to laugh. “<em>None</em> of my students have remarked on it. <em>Not one</em>. They all seem perfectly satisfied with the spell.”</p>
<p>Snape shakes his head. “Too polite to complain, surely.”</p>
<p>Harry glares at him. “How did <em>you</em> even get so good at French anyway?”</p>
<p>“Effort and patience and dedication. All of which, by having been your teacher for six years, I know you thoroughly lack, Potter.” He pauses, seems to reconsider his statement. “As a student, though perhaps not as a teacher.”</p>
<p>“Oh, was that a compliment?”</p>
<p>Snape shrugs. “Who am I to argue with the general consensus?”</p>
<p>Harry is silent for a time, still unsure if Snape is complimenting or mocking him. “Look, there just wasn’t time enough to learn,” he attempts to explain.</p>
<p>Snape frowns. “Miss Delacour tells me you’ve been in Paris for <em>three</em> years. And there wasn’t time?”</p>
<p>Harry sighs. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to justify himself to Snape. “I had other things to do.”</p>
<p>Snape peers at him for a long moment before he speaks. “You had time to learn Faucheux’s theories and to master Barkovsky’s adaptation methods and yet you couldn’t find it in yourself to learn to conjugate simple verbs?”</p>
<p>Harry is taken aback. Snape sounds almost impressed. He was expecting patronising or judgemental, but not impressed. He shrugs. “Exactly. Priorities, you know. There’s only so much time in a single day.”</p>
<p>Snape only shakes his head. Yet again, Harry doesn’t quite understand what he might be thinking, or what he might be getting at. He looks like he’s come here to scold, and yet he isn’t quite scolding.</p>
<p>“What do you want anyway?” he asks the man, trying not to sound hostile. He said he was coming in peace, wasn’t he?</p>
<p>“Your teaching has merit,” Snape finally admits, as if it was paining him to say it. “It is obvious. From what I have seen first-hand, and from what has been reported by others. Your students appreciate you, that is clear enough. And that is, ultimately, what matters the most. But I believe, and the headmistress agrees, that it is an insult to this establishment that you should rely on a spell to make yourself understood.”</p>
<p>“An <em>insult</em>? The headmistress said that?”</p>
<p>“<em>I</em> said that,” Snape points out. “<em>She</em> said it was unfortunate.”</p>
<p>“What do you want me to do about it then?” Harry asks dryly.</p>
<p>“<em>Learn</em>, Potter. I am here to offer to teach you.” Snape leans back in the chair as if he feels particularly smug, and Harry supposes it has something to do with the look of thorough disbelief that must have formed on his own face.</p>
<p>“<em>Why</em> would you want to do that? You just said it yourself, I’m a terrible student. Besides, we don’t exactly have the best history when it comes to one-on-one lessons,” Harry recalls.</p>
<p>“If you can refrain from delving into my private life, we should be fine,” Snape replies somewhat bitterly. “We are both adults now. I don’t see why we couldn’t make this work.”</p>
<p>Harry shakes his head, looks at him for a long moment. “Why would you do that <em>for me</em>?” he asks then, softly.</p>
<p>Snape sighs, irritated, and regards Harry like one would a child who hasn’t been paying attention. “As I said the other day, I care about this school and its standards. And I do believe you bring something to–”</p>
<p>“Bring something?”</p>
<p>“I believe you are <em>beneficial</em> to this school, Potter. You cannot very well learn French in class with the students. Beauxbâtons does not teach it as a second language. You would be completely lost. You must start at the beginning. I propose we meet twice a week after dinner. In my office. Wednesdays and Fridays. Does that work for you?”</p>
<p>Harry rubs his eyes again. “Do I <em>have</em> to?”</p>
<p>“The headmistress <em>strongly</em> encourages it. And I believe the time has come, Potter. You can no longer avoid learning this.”</p>
<p>Harry sighs. “Fine then. I’ll do it.”</p>
<p>“Very well,” Snape declares, standing. “My office, tomorrow at eight. Don’t be late, Potter,” he warns before leaving.</p>
<p>In the music room, the pianist has started an ominous piece by Beethoven, and Harry rests his forehead against the desk, closing his eyes.</p>
<p>Private lessons with Snape. Harry is already sure he’ll regret agreeing to this. Not only because it’s Snape, and he’s bound to make these lessons harder and more tedious than they have to be. But also, because it’s become quite obvious to Harry, no matter how he might try to ignore it, or deny it, that even after six years, what was born that day in the hospital wing – when he turned away from the flowers to look at Snape laughing – that little flutter in his chest, it’s still there. It’s been there all along, dormant.</p>
<p>It’s no mystery why Harry can’t get any sleep. It’s just like it was before. And now he’s gone and made it worse, because it’s certainly not going to get any better with him spending two nights a week in Snape’s company.</p>
<p>All in all, a terrible, terrible idea. And yet Harry cannot wait.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>- 3 -</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>untranslatable</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Snape’s office is on the fifth floor, on the other side of the building, facing west. When Harry arrives, ten minutes before the agreed upon time, he finds the door shut. It makes him smile somehow. Snape hasn’t changed, it seems. He’s just as unapproachable as he’s always been. Of course, it’s quite late now for students to drop by – nearly curfew for the lower years – but he wonders if Snape keeps his door shut the rest of the time as well. He can’t imagine Snape is the sort of man to enjoy chatting with students outside of his official hours like Harry has been doing. He doubts <em>he’s</em> ever closed his office door, even during the Tuesday seminars. But then again, Snape has always been a solitary man. And Harry has come to fear the silence.</p>
<p>He barely has time to knock on the heavy oak door when it opens to reveal a young man carrying a pile of essays. Harry recognises him as Snape’s second assistant, Javier. From the look on his face, it’s obvious he’s just received a good scolding.</p>
<p>“Professor,” he mumbles, nodding politely at Harry before hurrying away down the hall.</p>
<p>“Do come in, Potter,” Snape’s voice says from inside, somewhat coldly.</p>
<p>His office is quite big, much larger than Harry’s, even with the expansion spell. Every wall is lined with shelves containing jars and vials of all sorts. There are desks in the corner for the assistants, and a door at the back, probably leading to a laboratory or a cupboard of some sort. The windows are narrower here than in Harry’s office – long, vertical slashes cut into the stone wall, like stab wounds. At this hour, the orange glow of the nearly setting sun casts a strangely beautiful light into the room.</p>
<p>“You’re early,” Snape remarks. “Consider me surprised.”</p>
<p>He has his back to Harry and is rummaging through the bookshelves behind his desk. He has removed his vest and coat and is wearing only a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Harry watches the way the fabric moves against his shoulder blades as Snape raises his arm to grab a book from an upper shelf, and he can’t help but wonder what it would be like to touch the man’s back, to feel the warmth of him beneath the fabric. Or better yet, the bare skin under his fingertips.</p>
<p>Harry looks away, his heart in his throat. “Trouble with your assistant?” he finds himself asking as he looks around the room, if only not to look at Snape.</p>
<p>“Mr Canales is a gifted young man, although a little too easily distracted for my taste. A considerable number of essays he has corrected contain mistakes that evaded his attention. I kindly asked him to review them.”</p>
<p>Harry grins. “Kindly.”</p>
<p>Snape turns to frown at him, dropping a small book on his desk as he does so. “Yes, Potter. <em>Kindly</em>.”</p>
<p>“He looked like he might cry,” Harry remarks.</p>
<p>Snape has his back turned again, retrieving some more books from the shelf. “I assure you I was no harsher than I needed to be. He doesn’t take criticism very well, that’s all.”</p>
<p>“He best get used to it then, or this will be a hard year for him.”</p>
<p>Snape snorts softly, adding one last book to the pile. “Make sure you turn off your translation spell completely, Potter. There will be no need for it. And close the door, will you? This will be tedious enough without us being disturbed.”</p>
<p>“Tedious?” Harry repeats. He taps the bracelet before shutting the door softly. “<em>You’re</em> the one who suggested this, remember? There are other things I can do with my evening if you’re going to be an arse about it.” He nearly cringes as he says the words, thinking he’s crossed a line, before remembering that he can speak to Snape in whichever way he wants now. They are both teachers, on equal ground.</p>
<p>Snape sighs heavily, dropping into his chair. He raises a hand to drag fingers through his hair and Harry follows the movement. The Dark Mark on his forearm is faded, just a shadow now, an undefined smear of the skull and serpent Harry knows used to be there. “Apologies, Potter. I’ve had a long day,” the man says slowly.</p>
<p>Harry is thoroughly unsettled. He’s never seen Snape like this before, so casual, with his hair in disarray and his sleeves rolled up. So unguarded. So… vulnerable? And apologising to <em>him</em>?</p>
<p>“If you’d rather postpone, it doesn’t bother me,” Harry says, unable to think about what else to say exactly.</p>
<p>It would be okay with him if they postponed. He would like to leave. He would like to go back to his quarters and curl up on his bed and bury his face in his pillow. Or no… no, he would like to stay. He can’t tell anymore what he wants. He wants to run away as far as possible, and he wants to stay here forever, in the half dim, half illuminated office, looking at Snape’s tired face and bare forearms.</p>
<p>Snape shakes his head. “No, there is too much to do. We’ll start tonight. Take a seat, Potter, don’t just stand there. I took the liberty of putting these together for you,” he adds, pushing the pile of books towards Harry across the desk. “You can keep them if you wish, I no longer have any use for them. They’ve only been gathering dust.”</p>
<p>Snape’s armchairs are not as comfy as the ones in his office, Harry notes in amusement. Probably so the students don’t linger. He examines the offered books. They are all on French grammar – word variations, orthograph anomalies, rules of the feminine and masculine, plural forms, colours and numbers, adverbs. Snape reaches out to remove a small hardcover from the pile and hands it to Harry directly. It looks old and worn.</p>
<p>“This will be your new best friend,” the man announces with a sort of smirk that Harry doesn’t quite like.</p>
<p><em>Bescherelle</em>, the book announces in bold white letters on one side of the green cover. <em>L’Art de conjuguer</em>. Harry opens it to skim through briefly, and finds it is exactly what he feared. Verbs. Nothing but verbs. Pages and pages of verbs, regular and irregular, with all their forms listed in neat little columns.</p>
<p>“Bloody hell,” he mutters, snapping the book shut and putting it back on the pile. “I’m out of my depths already.”</p>
<p>“I’m not asking you to learn all of these by heart, Potter. These will be useful to you as references when we get to the more complicated notions, but we will begin, of course, with the basics. We’ll take it at a reasonable pace. Learning another language is a long process, and French is certainly not the easiest of them.”</p>
<p>“When did <em>you</em> start learning?”</p>
<p>“As a teenager. I have always been in the habit of seeking knowledge wherever I could find it. The younger you are when you begin, the easier it is. I am also fluent in German, if you are interested,” he adds with a smirk.</p>
<p>“Fuck no, thank you,” Harry scoffs and Snape raises an amused eyebrow. “I <em>do</em> know some of the basics though. I’m not completely ignorant. I’ve picked up on a few things.”</p>
<p>“After three years in Paris, I should hope so,” Snape comments, and Harry rolls his eyes. “But if you’ve been using that horrid spell the whole time–”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t using it at first. I tried to learn, I <em>really</em> did, but it wasn’t fast enough. My flatmate spoke horrible English and we couldn’t understand each other. I <em>had</em> to find a way,” Harry explains. “It got exhausting to cast the spell every time I needed it, especially if I was around Muggles, which is why I made the bracelet.” He pauses for a moment, suddenly embarrassed. “Maybe I got a bit lazy after that, I suppose.”</p>
<p>Snape scoffs. “I would say that, yes. I will teach you about culture as well. You cannot learn a language without knowing about arts and literature and history.”</p>
<p>Harry frowns. “I’m not completely uncultured either. I know things. Like you said, three years.”</p>
<p>Snape crosses his arms and looks at him sceptically. “Let’s see about that.” He seems to think this over for a moment, then he smirks. “In Truffaut’s <em>Les Quatre Cents Coups</em> from 1959, what does the little brat steal from his father?”</p>
<p>Harry grins. “A typewriter.”</p>
<p>Snape looks surprised. “You watched that movie?”</p>
<p>“My flatmate loved that sort of thing. Old movies, old music. She had better taste in movies than in music, to be fair. She used to drag me to that little cinema that showed a lot of Truffaut. I prefer <em>Jules et Jim</em> though.”</p>
<p>Snape is silent, staring at Harry for a long moment before averting his eyes. “As you would,” he remarks. “Personally, I prefer Godard.”</p>
<p>Harry can’t help but laugh. He’s often found Godard’s films quite pretentious. “Yeah, as <em>you</em> would.”</p>
<p>“<em>Alphaville</em> is a masterpiece.”</p>
<p>Harry shrugs. “Maybe. I’ve never seen that one.”</p>
<p>“Enlighten me, Potter,” Snape says slowly, carefully, as if stepping into dangerous territory. “Why Paris?”</p>
<p>Harry doesn’t answer at once, mulling things over, unsure if he wants to discuss this with Snape, of all people. He doesn’t even know himself why he chose Paris. He could have gone anywhere. He could have gone somewhere they speak English and made it easier on himself.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” he admits. “I briefly considered New York for a time, but I didn’t really want to leave Europe. I just wanted something different. I wanted to get away, and I <em>could</em>, so I thought, why not?”</p>
<p>It’s just like Snape said that day in the hospital wing<em>. If I were you, Potter, I would pack my bags and leave and never come back</em>. That’s what Harry did. And that’s what Snape did as well, in fact. Harry wants to remind him of that but refrains.</p>
<p>Snape stares at him. He looks as if he wants to ask something more but instead declares, “Enough chatter. Let’s get to the matter at hand. We’ll start with the proper pronunciation, which I doubt you’ve had a chance to master or even understand with that spell of yours. Now, in this aspect French is quite simple. There is no stress like in English. French has a distinct and flat intonation, except in certain circumstances. Once you know the pronunciation rules, they are quite fixed. No irregularities. You’ll need to memorise and practice them. I suggest reading aloud. I’ll find some simple texts for you to start with.”</p>
<p>They are at it for two hours, which are surprisingly not as torturous as Harry had expected. Snape is not the teacher he remembers from Occlumency lessons. But then again, he was fifteen back then. He was fifteen and insolent and Snape was working as a spy and had been forced into those lessons against his will. It’s quite different now, so much so that Snape actually seems to be enjoying himself. He has a passion for the French language that inspires Harry to try his best and not disappoint him. Hearing him speak French is also a perk. Snape’s voice, the way his mouth curls around the words, causes something to shiver in Harry’s chest.</p>
<p>When he returns to his quarters, it’s past ten o’clock, and everything is dark and silent. He is tired, physically and mentally, and yet he knows it is not enough. Yet he knows it will be hours before he can fall asleep. He sets the pile of books on the side table in the sitting room and considers making a cup of tea, but he is too exhausted even for that. He curls up on his bed instead, still fully dressed, and presses his palms against his eyes.</p>
<p>He’s been staring at Snape’s hands nearly all night. Wondering what it would be like to be touched by them, to be held by them. He has this feeling that Snape would be gentle with his caresses. He might be rude and moody most of the time, but he looks the sort of man who would take great care of the things he loves. Touch them softly the way he delicately turns the pages of books, the way he carefully manipulates potions vials.</p>
<p>There’s this expression in French that’s completely untranslatable. <em>La douleur exquise</em>. Exquisite pain. It’s used literarily and sounds a little snobbish, to be honest, but as Harry tries to look for sleep and can only manage to see Snape’s eyes behind his own, he realises now what it means exactly. The pain of loving someone who will never love you back. The joy of being around them, of seeing them, of being with them, but with the added torture of knowing they will never be yours.</p>
<p>An exquisite pain. Glorious and agonising, all at once.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Harry usually wakes up late on the weekends, taking advantage of the free time and the opportunity to try and catch up on all the missed sleep. One Sunday in October, after three weeks of French lessons on top of his own classes, it’s well past noon when Harry leaves his quarters in search of food, stifling a yawn.</p>
<p>“Harry!” Michel calls out to him just as he is about to enter the dining room. “I was looking for you earlier. I knocked on your door. You’re okay?” he asks, frowning, when he reaches Harry. “You’re sick?”</p>
<p>Harry feels self-conscious all of a sudden, aware of the dark circles that have progressively been forming around his eyes. “No, no, I’m okay. I haven’t slept well, that’s all. Why were you looking for me?”</p>
<p>Michel looks disappointed, but he smiles anyway. “I was just wondering if you would like to go to Nuée for breakfast, but hey, it’s okay. Another day?”</p>
<p>Harry shrugs. “We could go for lunch, if you want. I’m starving. I’ve been craving one of those croque-monsieur sandwiches.”</p>
<p>Michel grins. “Do you want to go now? We can take the mountain path.”</p>
<p>It’s warm enough today that they don’t need to wear coats. There is a path leading from the school and down the mountainside, through the trees and along the river, all the way to Nuée. A shortcut, faster than the dirt road that leads to the train station. It’s well-maintained for the most part, especially closer to the school, but it’s rocky and abrupt in some places and requires careful footwork. Harry nearly falls once, when some rocks slip under his feet, and Michel puts a steady hand on his lower back, just in case. He leaves it there for quite some time afterwards, and Harry feels himself blush. He wonders if Snape would do such things, and the thought ignites a spark of pain next to his heart. There is relief but also longing when Michel removes his hand.</p>
<p>They settle on the terrace near the lake and both order the croque-monsieur special. Harry asks for a double shot of espresso to chase the last remnants of sleep from his head, and Michel orders a glass of white wine.</p>
<p>“So, the French lessons, how is it going?” he asks Harry while they wait for their food.</p>
<p>Harry smiles. “It’s going well enough, but there’s just so much to learn, it’s overwhelming.”</p>
<p>“You want to stop your spell and practice a little?” Michel asks, grinning.</p>
<p>“No! I’m not quite ready to humiliate myself yet.”</p>
<p>Michel’s grin widens. “Let me know if you want. I promise to speak slowly.”</p>
<p>“You’ll have to promise not to laugh either. I’m terrible,” Harry says with a wince.</p>
<p>“Snape isn’t too hard on you, I hope?”</p>
<p>“Not as much as I expected. He’s better than I remember.”</p>
<p>Harry has just noticed a group of sixth year students settled at a table nearby. They are throwing curious glances at them and whispering amongst each other. Harry wonders if maybe they think he and Michel are on a date. He feels embarrassed, all of a sudden. Will the rumour spread at school? What will the students think? What will <em>Snape</em> think if he hears about it? What if he thinks Harry is in a relationship, that he isn’t available?</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s right,” Michel is saying. “He taught you at Hogwarts. I had completely forgotten.”</p>
<p>“Yes, for six years. I skipped seventh. I had… other things to do,” Harry summarises when Michel frowns, hoping he won’t ask any further questions. Discussing the Horcrux hunt is the last thing Harry wants to do on this beautiful autumn afternoon.</p>
<p>Their food arrives, interrupting the conversation for a moment, and once they’re alone again, Michel remarks, “Yes, but it’s different. A Potions class with lots of other students and a private lesson is not exactly the same thing. It must be rather strange for you.”</p>
<p>“I’ve had private lessons with him before.”</p>
<p>Michel grins. “You were as bad as that in Potions?” he teases.</p>
<p>Harry laughs, shaking his head. “Quite bad, yes, but that wasn’t it. He taught me Occlumency when I was fifteen. Just for a little while though. I was a terrible student.”</p>
<p>Michel is gaping at him. “Occlumency? At fifteen? They do this at Hogwarts?”</p>
<p>“No, they don’t. I was in a… particular situation,” Harry explains softly.</p>
<p>Michel simply nods and he doesn’t question Harry further, taking a sip of his wine instead. They are quiet for a moment as they start eating, and Harry looks at Michel furtively. He can tell the man likes him, or is interested in him, at the very least. It’s obvious from the way Michel looks at him, smiles at him, <em>touches</em> him… It would be so simple if Harry could return those feelings. It would be so easy to be happy with Michel Follet. It would be so easy to fall in love with him… Why can’t anything <em>ever</em> be easy?</p>
<p>“When we talk about the wolf,” Michel says suddenly, jerking his head towards the street. “Isn’t that him over there?”</p>
<p>Harry turns to look. Snape has just emerged from the apothecary’s shop further down the street, carrying some packages, and is walking their way, seemingly lost in his own thoughts until Michel calls out to him.</p>
<p>“Severus! It’s surprising to see you here. Have you finally decided to get out of your den and enjoy the day?”</p>
<p>Harry smiles. Coming from another man, the words might have sounded leering or condescending, but Michel has spoken fondly, and he seems genuinely happy to see Snape. Snape’s face, however, turns into its usual frown.</p>
<p>“Some of us have better things to do, Follet,” he says shortly, sparing Harry a brief, impassive look before walking away.</p>
<p>“Oh, come on, Severus!” Michel protests, laughing at the man’s snappish manner. “Stay have a drink with us!”</p>
<p>Snape says something indecipherable in return, which Harry doesn’t manage to understand but that sounds like an insult, and Michel laughs again, shaking his head before turning back to Harry. “Has he always been like that or is it just because of the war?”</p>
<p>“Oh, he’s always been like that. Actually, I think he was worse before,” Harry says softly, watching Snape’s dark silhouette walk away.</p>
<p><em>I want your hand on my back</em>, he thinks, as if the man could hear his thoughts calling out. <em>I want you to make sure I don’t fall. I want you to touch me. I want to have lunch with you. I want you to smile at me across the table. I want it to be you</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The rumour spreads, as Harry suspected it would. Professors Follet and Potter had lunch together in Nuée, the students whisper. They had wine and talked for a long time, and they smiled at each other quite a lot. Harry doesn’t know what to make of it, can’t quite decide if he’s bothered by it or not. Michel, however, almost seems to enjoy it. He grins at Harry every time they see each other in the corridor, as if they share a secret of some sort, though it’s really no longer a secret, if it ever was. If there’s even something to be secretive about. When Anna happens upon him while he’s smoking a cigarette in the courtyard between two lessons and asks about it, Harry explains that it was just lunch and that the students are imagining things.</p>
<p>“But you like him, don’t you?” she whispers, grinning.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Harry says shortly, avoiding her eyes. “Maybe,” he adds.</p>
<p>“I know he likes you,” she reveals before taking a long drag of her own cigarette. “He told me.”</p>
<p>Harry doesn’t reply, unsure what to say to that revelation. Not that he wasn’t aware of it – it was obvious to him from the very start – and normally, he would jump at the opportunity. And why wouldn’t he? Michel is brilliant and kind and attractive. It has never been a problem for Harry before, sleeping with someone casually, with nothing attached. But he doesn’t know if he can do that anymore. He’s made this unspoken, unconscious promise to himself before he came here, that he would try to do better, to be kinder to himself and to others. As much as Harry wants to be loved, wants to be held, he will not make that mistake again. He will not break someone else’s heart.</p>
<p>“He has wanted to ask you out for weeks. He was nervous,” Anna adds, shaking her head in disbelief. “He looks confident and carefree, but he’s sensitive, you know.”</p>
<p>Harry nods, understanding this for what it is. A warning. Words unsaid. <em>If you don’t mean it, don’t lead him on</em>.</p>
<p>It would be so easy though, to be with Michel. Harry wants something easy. That’s what he’s been looking for all these years, isn’t it? He’s slept with people he had no feelings for, except a certain degree of fondness, because it’s easier without feelings. If you don’t love someone, you can’t get hurt.</p>
<p>But it’s a selfish way of life, to take and take and give nothing back. He thinks back to what happened with Maxence. No, Harry will not take anymore. He needs to learn to live without. He will not subject anyone else to this sort of pain.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>During his Wednesday night lesson, Harry has a fight with Snape. He’s tired and keeps making mistakes and can’t remember half of what he learned the week before. He’s trying hard, but he’s completely useless tonight. At first Snape is exasperated and annoyed, and then he turns angry.</p>
<p>“If you studied in your spare time instead of gallivanting with Follet, maybe you would learn something!” the man snaps.</p>
<p>Harry’s face heats up in anger. “<em>Gallivanting?</em> We had lunch! Am I supposed to stay cooped up in my quarters all weekend?”</p>
<p>“You are supposed to <em>work</em>, Potter, if you want to get anywhere. I’m not just throwing notions at you for the fun of it. I expect you to remember them! I expect results!”</p>
<p>“I teach all week, I have labs, I have students to see, and I have to do this twice a week on top of everything!” Harry nearly shouts, defensive and furious. “I’m <em>exhausted</em>. You can’t expect me to have time enough to–”</p>
<p>“<em>I</em> have time enough!” Snape retorts nastily. “I also teach, I also have labs, and yet I manage it, Potter. How do you explain <em>that</em>?”</p>
<p>“I’m allowed to have some time for myself!” Harry protests.</p>
<p>Snape sneers. “For yourself or for Follet?”</p>
<p>Harry pauses, heart pounding. “Is this about the French or is this really about Michel?” he asks, voice shaking despite himself. He’s not sure if it’s from anger or something else.</p>
<p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Potter,” Snape says coldly. “That’s enough for tonight. Get out and get some rest if you’re <em>so</em> <em>exhausted</em>,” he adds nastily.</p>
<p>Harry storms out. He’s so tired and angry he wants to break something. He hasn’t had a fight with Snape since that day in the hospital wing, and he’d almost forgotten how cruel the man can be, how hateful he can make his words. That night, he cries into his pillow, and it’s already four in the morning by the time he manages to fall asleep.</p>
<p>On Friday night, he heads straight to his quarters after dinner instead of going to Snape’s office. He simply cannot find it in himself to face the man tonight. Around eight thirty, there is a knock on the door, at first soft, then insistent, but Harry ignores it. Later that evening, he asks a kitchen elf for a bottle of wine and he drinks all of it. He sleeps through the whole night for the first time in weeks.</p>
<p>The next morning, Harry discovers a note was slipped under his door during the night, written in Snape’s distinctive scrawl. <em>Potter</em>, it reads, <em>I apologise. If you come on Wednesday, we will review the notions you are having trouble with.</em></p>
<p>Harry carries the note around in his pocket for days.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In French, they call it <em>l’appel du vide</em>. The call of the void. It’s another one of those untranslatable expressions Harry has read about. It’s this sudden urge you sometimes get, when you’re standing on a bridge or on a cliff, to just… jump. The uncontrollable desire to plummet into nothingness, to embrace the fall, to test the limits of your own mortality.</p>
<p>It is this feeling, perhaps, that pushes Harry to continue the lessons. A desire to test himself, to seek the emptiness and lose himself into it. He knows that seeing Snape will hurt but he can’t stop it. He needs it. He would just call this self-sabotage, or better yet, twisting the knife in his own wound, but <em>l’appel du vide</em> sounds so much more poetic.</p>
<p>He has faced death. He has walked into the forest knowing he was going to die. <em>This</em> is nothing. He can do this. This is just Snape.</p>
<p>When Harry arrives, Snape does not apologise further. He doesn’t mention the note, nor the events of last week. He is his usual self, matter-of-fact and snappy, but he is calm and composed tonight. Patient. There is a vial of potion on the desk, and he points at it.</p>
<p>“I made this for you, Potter. I think it might help,” he explains, fetching the small blackboard they’ve been using from where he’s put it away in a corner of the room.</p>
<p>Even before asking, Harry recognises the potion as a peace offering. “What is it for?”</p>
<p>“Concentration. Focus. It will help you be more alert and retain the information better.”</p>
<p>“So, it’s like a Red Bull?” Harry asks, grinning.</p>
<p>The man snorts, dragging the blackboard over near the desk. “What in Merlin’s name is that?”</p>
<p>“It’s a Muggle drink. It’s full of caffeine, for energy, and it helps concentration. Students use it.” Harry pauses. “Will this keep me from sleeping?”</p>
<p>“I should think not. There’s no caffeine in it.”</p>
<p>“Isn’t it a bit like cheating though?”</p>
<p>Snape sighs heavily. “It merely helps you concentrate, and it’s not like you’re studying for the NEWTs, Potter,” he drawls, visibly annoyed. “You are not obliged to take it. But given that it took three hours to brew, and I made quite a large batch, <em>especially</em> for you, it would be rude of you not use it.”</p>
<p>Harry laughs. “Fine, fine, I’ll give it a try,” he says before taking the vial. The potion glows a light golden colour and it’s sweet and strangely thick as he swallows it.</p>
<p>It works quite well though. Harry feels more immersed into the lesson than he usually is, and he manages to concentrate on the actual material instead of spending the whole time staring at Snape, examining the details of his face or his hands or his arms if he ever rolls up his sleeves. He takes notes throughout, in the little notebook he’s barely used so far. Snape is patient, going over the verbs they’ve already seen and explaining everything over again calmly, answering each of Harry’s questions without snapping at him or sighing.</p>
<p>“Good work tonight, Potter,” he says when they are done, and Harry is gathering the few books he brought with him. “I was thinking we might tackle the <em>imparfait</em> on Friday? Are you ready for that?”</p>
<p>Harry can hardly believe the man is asking for his opinion and he pauses for a moment, surprised. Snape is looking at him almost proudly. Maybe it’s the potion still active, stimulating his mind, but he feels ready to tackle anything at the moment.</p>
<p>“That’s great. Looking forward to it!” he says with a grin. “Goodnight, Severus.”</p>
<p>Snape doesn’t reply, only watches him leave. It’s only when Harry is halfway down the corridor that he realises he’s never called the man by his first name before. But obviously Snape wasn’t bothered by it, otherwise he would have let him know for sure. He’s not the sort of man to keep quiet if insulted.</p>
<p>“Severus,” Harry whispers into the silent, darkened halls, if only for himself. He doesn’t know if he’s even said it before this day, even in conversation, even in passing. It’s always been Snape, never <em>Severus</em>.</p>
<p>That night, lying in his cold bed, hugging onto his pillow as if it were someone else, Harry stares at the ceiling for a long time. It’s always worse when he’s alone like this, in the dark. It feels like his chest is on fire, and sometimes he cries without meaning to. He has walked into the forest, knowing he was going to die. And yet it didn’t hurt nearly as much as this does.</p>
<p>He thinks about something Cornélius once said. <em>People cannot be alone for long before their loneliness starts to define them…</em></p>
<p>Harry decides that he will not let this define him. He will <em>not</em>! He will not lose sleep over a man who wants nothing to do with him anymore. He will forget about Snape, in any way he can. He will get over this.</p>
<p>But it’s easier said than done. The heart doesn’t work that way.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The day before Halloween, Harry walks into his office to find Lisa and Luuk huddled on the little sofa, snogging. They pull apart swiftly when they notice his presence and apologise, looking flushed and embarrassed.</p>
<p>“It’s okay,” Harry tells them, smirking, because he’d just won ten galleons.</p>
<p>Gabrielle sighs when she hands him the money. “There’s another bet, you know,” she whispers. “About you and Professor Follet. I heard some people talking about it.”</p>
<p>Harry can’t stop the offended look on his face. “For fuck’s sake, we went out for lunch <em>once</em>!” he hisses, looking around the corridor to make sure no one heard him cuss.</p>
<p>Gabrielle grins. “That’s how it starts, isn’t it?” she teases.</p>
<p>“You and I had lunch. It doesn’t mean we’re going to start dating.”</p>
<p>“That’s not the same,” she laughs. “His assistants say that he talks about you all the time. And in class as well. Some of the sixth years counted and he mentioned you five times in a single lesson,” she reveals. “Don’t you like him?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know…” Harry says honestly, looking down at his feet, feeling embarrassed under her curious stare. “I don’t think so. Not like that...” He pauses then adds, “It doesn’t matter if I do or if I don’t. I don’t think I’m meant to be with anyone. It’s better I’m on my own.”</p>
<p>Gabrielle seems at once surprised and sad. “Why would you stay that? No one wants to be on their own.”</p>
<p>He only shrugs uncomfortably, more than ready to end this conversation. “I have to go. I have students to see,” he mumbles before walking away.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As they drift into November, Harry works hard on his resolution to try and get over Snape. He takes the potion at every lesson now, and it is a godsend, allowing him to concentrate on the material and not on the teacher. He throws himself into his own classes and into studying French whenever he has a spare moment, and he gets good at it. Snape seems proud of the results, but Harry tries not to relish in this. He tries not to chat with the man too much either, not as he did before. He talks only of the lessons and the notions and he doesn’t engage if Snape attempts to change the subject, to ask him about his classes or his interests, as he has surprisingly been doing of late. Snape frowns at his closed-off replies and his brief answers, but Harry doesn’t let it affect him. <em>You don’t want me, then you have no right to know more about me than what I am willing to tell you</em>, he sometimes thinks, quite aware of how petty he is being.</p>
<p>Although he’d promised himself he wouldn’t, he has lunch with Michel again a few times. And one Saturday night, he even accepts a dinner invitation. Michel takes him to a different restaurant, nothing overly fancy, though still more than is appropriate to go to with someone you have no intention of leading on, but Harry goes anyway. He feels guilty the whole time, and he drinks too much wine, and Michel has to Apparate them back to the castle because there is just no way Harry can walk up the mountain path. He lets Michel walk him back to his quarters, but then he lies, saying he isn’t feeling well. Because he’s afraid Michel might try to kiss him or ask to come inside. Because he wants it, but he can’t let it happen. He wants it but he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t know what he wants anymore.</p>
<p>He wants to be held tight, to be told that everything will be okay, that it will get better, that this thing that’s been gnawing at his heart will go away soon.</p>
<p>At least the wine makes him sleep soundly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>One Friday night, when he enters Snape’s office, there is an old movie projector set up in a corner of the room, and a white sheet has been installed over a wall, covering the shelves and their contents. Snape is moving armchairs around to face it.</p>
<p>“What is this for?” Harry asks curiously, setting his books down on the desk.</p>
<p>“Isn’t it obvious?” Snape drawls.</p>
<p>Harry snorts. “Yeah, but why do you–”</p>
<p>“I thought we might take a break tonight and watch a film instead.”</p>
<p>Harry stares. Snape seems strangely pleased with himself, and he can’t help but think this is a trap somehow.</p>
<p>Snape rolls his eyes at the expression on his face. “Don’t be so distrustful, Potter. Try to enjoy the gesture, at least. This contraption was not easy to find.” He jerks his chin towards the projector. “I had to search through three different storage rooms.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, I guess,” Harry says softly, clueless as to why Snape would go through this much trouble for his sake. “What are we watching?”</p>
<p>Snape looks particularly smug at that. “You mentioned you had never seen <em>Alphaville</em>, and I thought we should remedy this.”</p>
<p>“Are there subtitles?”</p>
<p>“No, but you can use your horrid spell if you want.”</p>
<p>Harry sighs. “You know, that <em>horrid spell</em>, as you call it, took three weeks to make. It’s not supposed to be perfect, and I knew it wouldn’t be, but it does what it’s meant to do. It’s enough.”</p>
<p>Snape is silent for a time. “It’s… adequate, I suppose. I must admit that the spellwork is impressive.”</p>
<p>Harry grins. “A movie <em>and</em> a compliment. What a night.”</p>
<p>Snape doesn’t reply, only turns his back to him to adjust the sheet, smoothing out the wrinkles so the image from the projector will be as clear as possible. Harry takes a seat in one of the armchairs in front of it and waits patiently while Snape finishes setting things up. He has never been a fan of Godard’s movies, judging by the few he’s seen, but he’ll suffer through this if it means spending the evening in Snape’s company. Harry is greedy like that. He’ll take whatever he can get.</p>
<p>The film is strange, and even with the translation spell, Harry has trouble concentrating on it with Snape sitting so close by his side. From the corner of his eye, he can see the man’s face half illuminated by the lights of the projector, and Harry wishes he could turn and contemplate him fully without being noticed.</p>
<p>The story takes place in a strange futuristic city controlled by a computer, where all human emotions are prohibited and punishable by death. The protagonist infiltrates the city, pretending to be a journalist, but he is really a spy with the intention to kill the man responsible for this despotic regime and free the city. He meets the daughter of this man, with whom he falls in love. The music and the dialogue are stunning, but Harry is more interested in Anna Karina’s wide, alluring eyes than in the story as a whole.</p>
<p>“So, what is love?” she asks at one point, when the main character tells her he loves her. Because she doesn’t know, she <em>cannot</em> know. Her whole life, all emotions have been forbidden to her. “Your voice, your eyes… your hands, your lips,” she continues, in the half-darkness, the dialogue slipping into poetry, the screen showing nothing but her face. “Our silences, our words… The light that leaves, the light that returns. One smile for both of us. For the sake of knowing, I saw the night create the day, without our appearance changing. Oh, beloved of all and beloved of one, in silence your mouth promised to be happy…”</p>
<p>Harry glances at Snape. The man’s gaze is fixed on the screen, his mouth curled into a barely noticeable smile, unaware that he is being watched.</p>
<p>“I see the human form better and better. Like a dialogue of lovers, the heart has only one mouth...”</p>
<p>Harry watches the changing lights of the projector dance across Snape’s face, the glow reflected on his dark irises. His heart is pounding so hard he’s sure the man must be able to hear it. If he is, he doesn’t react, immersed as he is in the movie.</p>
<p>“I was going to you,” the actress continues softly. “I went endlessly towards the light. If you smile, it’s to invade me better. The rays of your arms parted the fog.”</p>
<p>Harry can barely concentrate on the rest of the movie, hands clasped on his lap to stop their shaking. How easy it would be to reach out and take Snape’s hand in his own. But he can’t do this. He will die before he dares.</p>
<p>When it’s over and Snape asks what he thinks of it, Harry only nods and says it was good. And he only listens while Snape explains Godard’s influence on New Wave French cinema, remarks on how the director is breaking the rules of continuity and editing and explains that the moral of the film is that poetry is the key to everything. </p>
<p>That night, as expected, Harry doesn’t sleep.</p>
<p><em>If you smile, it’s to invade me better.</em> The words echo in his head, and when he closes his eyes, all he can see is Snape’s face glowing in the light of the projector, his lips curving into a smile. <em>The rays of your arms parted the fog</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The next day, despite all the different ways he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do it again, Harry accepts another dinner invitation from Michel. He knows that he shouldn’t, but he just can’t fathom the thought of spending the evening shut into his quarters, miserable and alone with the silence. And he’s been thinking about it a lot. Michel is funny and kind and handsome, and he likes Harry. Harry likes him too, and that should be enough. He isn’t being deceitful, not really. He <em>wants</em> to give this a try. Maybe if he spends enough time with Michel, he’ll fall in love with him and forget all about Snape. That’s what Harry <em>hopes</em> will happen, at least.</p>
<p>The man is waiting for him in the darkened courtyard, looking dashingly handsome in his bespoke woollen coat. When he sees Harry approaching, his features form this expression of incredible fondness that Harry is always embarrassed by and yet always craving. If only Snape could look at him this way, he thinks every time, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest.</p>
<p>“I have a surprise for you tonight,” Michel says softly. “Something different.”</p>
<p>“We’re not going to Nuée then?”</p>
<p>The man shakes his head but only smiles mysteriously and offers Harry his arm. Harry grins in anticipation and takes it, holding on tight as they Apparate away. They end up in a small alley, and from the noises and lights coming from the street nearby, they must be in a city.</p>
<p>“Be wise, we are in Muggle territory,” Michel whispers close into his ear.</p>
<p>Harry swallows, mouth suddenly dry. He’s never been this close to Michel before. He can feel the man’s breath on his face. It smells of peppermint. “And <em>where</em> is that exactly?”</p>
<p>“Lourdes. There is a restaurant here that I love. It’s a little chic but the menu is incredible. I hope you will like it.”</p>
<p>Harry lets himself be led away into the main street. It’s a beautiful autumn evening, and he feels light and happy as they walk together. As much as he loves the school, he is excited to leave its surroundings for the first time in months. He’s missed the bustle of cities, the chatter and the lights. Of course, Lourdes is quaint compared to Paris, but it’s absolutely lovely. Harry has only seen it briefly in August while changing trains on his way to Nuée. He is so busy looking around at the little restaurants and shops that it’s only a while later that he notices he’s still holding onto Michel’s arm, but he doesn’t dare let go now, after all this time. Michel seems to like it – there’s a soft smile on his lips as he walks.</p>
<p>Harry is glad he decided to dress up a bit, because the restaurant is a fancy one indeed, with dim lights and white tablecloths and glittering glasses and silverware.</p>
<p>“Michel, this is too much,” he mumbles as they enter, thoroughly intimidated.</p>
<p>“Not at all,” Michel says in a low voice. “I want to please you tonight.”</p>
<p>Harry feels himself blushing. It’s probably the translation spell twisting the words, but he doesn’t dare ask for precision.</p>
<p>“Good evening,” Michel greets when the maître d’ approaches. “I have a reservation for two. For Follet.”</p>
<p>Someone comes to take their coats and the snobbish looking man leads them to a table for two near the windows. Everything is so polished and shiny Harry feels completely out of place.</p>
<p>“I’ve never been in such a fancy restaurant before,” he whispers as they are seated. “Don’t let me drink too much tonight, will you? I don’t want to embarrass myself.”</p>
<p>Michel grins at him across the table. “I’ll keep an eye on you, don’t worry,” he promises. He pauses and then he adds, softly, “You know you can trust me, right? I just want to… make it clear.”</p>
<p>Harry nods, smiling briefly at him before opening the menu and very nearly hiding behind it.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry if it bothered you,” Michel adds in a rush. When Harry raises his eyes, the man is looking honestly at him, carefully. “Anyway, what I mean is, I like being with you.”</p>
<p>“I like that too,” Harry admits. Because he does. He <em>really</em> does. But clearly not the same way. Clearly not the way Michel would like, nor the way he deserves. “So, what is good here?” he asks, clearing his throat, desperate to change the subject.</p>
<p>“You absolutely must try the duck breast. It is divine. The sauce reminds me of my grandmother’s recipe. Choose whatever you want, it’s me who offers,” he adds in a rush.</p>
<p>Harry gapes at him. “Michel, I can pay for my–”</p>
<p>“It was I who invited you,” Michel says with a final tone. “It makes me happy, don’t worry. I insist. Don’t be rude. You don’t want me to make a scene in the middle of a crowded restaurant, do you?” he adds with a ridiculously exaggerated frown.</p>
<p>Harry laughs. “Fine, then. Thank you. I’ll try the duck, in honour of your grandmother.”</p>
<p>Michel looks at him for a moment, silently. “She would have been crazy about you, I think,” he declares.</p>
<p>He’s told Harry about her before. Michel was raised by his grandmother, somewhere in Provence, in the middle of the lavender fields. He still spends his summers there at her old villa, even years after her death.</p>
<p>“Really? What makes you think that?”</p>
<p>Michel shrugs. “You’re brilliant, you’re beautiful. And besides, you like Aznavour, so you would win her heart.” He stares at Harry over his menu, his eyes narrowed into a smile though Harry can’t see his mouth.</p>
<p>Harry scoffs softly, blushing. “Oh yeah, I’m beautiful?” he asks boldly.</p>
<p>“No doubt about it. You know that half of the students are crazy about you, right?”</p>
<p>“And the other half about you,” Harry adds.</p>
<p>“So, aren’t we made to be together?” Michel teases, putting his menu down. He’s silent for a moment, and Harry feels his eyes linger though he’s still staring at his menu. “I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable when I say things like that,” the man says gently. “It’s just jokes, you know, I don’t want you to think that I expect–”</p>
<p>“No, I’m sorry,” Harry interrupts, putting his own menu down. “I just… I’ve been…” he begins, but he doesn’t quite know how to say this. “I’ve been alone for a while and I don’t do this often. Going out… like this.” He doesn’t want to say the word <em>date</em>, just in case he is misinterpreting everything. “I mean… I wasn’t alone, but… it felt like I was alone…” He trails off uncomfortably when the thought occurs to him that maybe he’s <em>always</em> been alone.</p>
<p>The waiter comes by at that moment, thank Merlin. They both order the duck and because neither of them can decide on an appetizer, they ask to share an assortment of canapés. Michel barely glances at the wine card before ordering a bottle of Chardonnay with such a fancy name Harry doesn’t dare think about its price.</p>
<p>“You were married, right?” Michel asks once they’re alone again. “For how long?”</p>
<p>“Two years.”</p>
<p>Michel nods then adds, softly, “I don’t want to be indiscreet, but… Is it because you love men that you separated?”</p>
<p>Harry shakes his head honestly. “No, not at all. We married young and didn’t think it through. We loved each other, but not the right way. And… I like women too.”</p>
<p>Michel grins at that. “I see. You’re the greedy type,” he teases, making Harry laugh.</p>
<p>They talk some more as they eat and drink. Harry tells Michel a little about Ginny, and how they fell apart, and how he decided to move to Paris, to seek a different life, free from expectations and that fame he had come to despise. Michel tells him how he was engaged for a time but broke it off when he found out his fiancé had been unfaithful since the very beginning. It was hard at first, but he’s okay now, he assures Harry. They drift to lighter subjects after that, gossiping about the students and the other teachers. When the waiter asks if they would like another bottle of wine, Michel kindly declines, and they order dessert instead.</p>
<p>When they leave the restaurant and walk down the street back to the narrow alley where they Apparated, Michel takes Harry’s hand in his own, tentatively. Harry lets him, his heart in his throat. It’s warm and soft and gentle, and he wants to hang onto it and never let it go.</p>
<p>“Do you want to come and have a glass of cognac?” Michel asks once they’re back at the school and walking down the darkened corridors.</p>
<p><em>Don’t go!</em> Harry’s conscience screams at him. “Yeah, okay,” he says softly. He doesn’t want to be alone just yet.</p>
<p>Michel’s quarters are nearly identical to his own, except he has the two sofas in the sitting room still. He takes his coat off, then takes Harry’s and drapes them over the back of an armchair. “Make yourself at home,” he says, walking over to the little bar he’s set up in a corner of the room.</p>
<p>Harry sits on one of the sofas, hands clasped tightly onto his lap. He misses the warmth of Michel’s palm already, and he wishes he were brave enough to ask. <em>Please hold my hand again, I’m afraid of getting lost</em>… <em>I’m already lost. Help me find my way back?</em></p>
<p>It’s not right. He should leave. He shouldn’t take advantage of this situation, of this man. This man who’s been hurt before, this man who looks at him like he’s the bloody sun. But Harry wants so badly to be looked at, to be noticed.</p>
<p>“Here,” Michel says, handing him a small glass of amber liquid, before sitting next to Harry. Very close to Harry.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Harry mumbles. “For tonight as well. It was very nice.”</p>
<p>“It is a pleasure,” Michel says softly, staring intently at him.</p>
<p>The next moment, just as Harry expected, Michel cups the side of his face gently, thumb caressing the corner of his mouth, before leaning in and pressing their lips together. Harry lets him, and though he means to kiss back, something cold forms inside his chest and he can’t find it in him to respond. He’s done this before – kiss people, sleep with people casually, with no feelings. With people he barely knew and didn’t like nearly as much as he likes Michel. He’s been doing this and was fine with it. So why can’t he do it anymore? Why can’t he just let go?</p>
<p>When Michel tries to deepen the kiss, only to notice Harry’s lack of enthusiasm, he pulls away slowly. “Did I just do something stupid?” he whispers, looking searchingly into Harry’s face.</p>
<p>“No…” Harry mumbles, averting his eyes. “I…”</p>
<p>“I’m so sorry. I thought you wanted to–”</p>
<p>“I thought so too–” Harry begins, but his voice breaks all of a sudden, and nothing else comes out.</p>
<p>Michel looks worried, and he takes Harry’s glass and puts it down on the side table. “Hey, hey…” he whispers as Harry’s eyes fill with tears. “I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>“I want to, but…” Harry insists, feeling like a complete idiot because now he’s crying, and he can’t seem to be able to put a stop to it. “I’m in love with someone… I’m trying not to be, but I…”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t work like that, Harry,” Michel says so softly, so tenderly it makes Harry’s heart clench with pain. “You can’t control these things. Come here.”</p>
<p>He wraps his arms around Harry, holding him tightly, steadily, and the last of Harry’s control slips away. He sobs into Michel’s shoulder helplessly, gripping at the man’s shirt.</p>
<p>“Shh…” Michel says into his ear. “It will be fine.”</p>
<p>“I can’t stop thinking about him…” Harry cries out softly. “I don’t know what to do…”</p>
<p>He lets Michel hold him, lets the man’s hands press soothing caresses up and down his back, whisper soft words as he cries, trying to rid himself of weeks, <em>months</em>, of pent-up sadness and longing. It’s all knotted up inside his chest in a hardened mass – the baobab roots again – that is now, at long last, dislodging.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbles when he can find his breath once more. “I really wanted to try, with you, but… I just can’t.”</p>
<p>Michel pulls away to look at his face. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I suspected that something was wrong. At first, I thought maybe someone had hurt you, so I thought I should be careful.”</p>
<p>Harry shakes his head, wiping at his face. “No, no one hurt me. Not like that.</p>
<p>Michel seems to hesitate. “Can I ask you…?” he says very softly, as if afraid to scare Harry or anger him. “Is it Severus?”</p>
<p>Harry nods, avoiding his eyes. “How did you know?”</p>
<p>“By the way you talk about him sometimes. You smile… I don’t know… differently. It has been a long time?”</p>
<p>Harry nods again, his heart heavy. “Yes…” he whispers. “I told him about it once, years ago. It didn’t go well. Then I didn’t see him again until I came here. I didn’t know he was teaching here… I thought I was over it, but then… I wasn’t. The French lessons are only making it worse, I think. Being with him so often. I’m just so tired… I haven’t been sleeping,” he admits.</p>
<p>“Come, it’s late. I’ll take you back to–”</p>
<p>“Can I stay?” Harry croaks out pitifully. “Just to… Just to sleep? I don’t want to be alone.”</p>
<p>“Of course,” Michel says softly. “Come on.”</p>
<p>He expected to settle on the sofa, but Michel leads him to his bedroom instead. There, he takes Harry’s shoes off and insists Harry takes the bed.</p>
<p>“Can you stay? Please?” Harry asks miserably, deeply embarrassed.</p>
<p>Exhausted but feeling lighter than he has in months, Harry falls asleep fully dressed in Michel Follet’s arms.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When he wakes up, late the next morning, Harry is alone in the unfamiliar bed and has been covered with a soft blanket. Though he’s managed to sleep deeply, he still feels tired and raw. He doesn’t move for a long time, listening to the silence, thinking back on the events of last night. He’s decided that there is only one way to try and fix things. He was fine before he saw Snape again. He was okay before that night at the party when he heard the man’s name spoken for the first time in six years. Before that, he could go about his days without a care. He could sleep with strangers. He didn’t feel like his heart was drying up inside his ribcage.</p>
<p>He needs to stop the French lessons. It’s the only way. He needs to cut all ties. He needs to go see Snape and tell the man to leave him the hell alone, to stop watching him, stop staring at him across crowded rooms, stop wandering in the corridor near his office. He needs to let himself be free so that he can try to heal.</p>
<p>Michel is sitting at his desk, correcting essays when Harry comes out of the bedroom. There is a tray next to him, containing the remains of his breakfast, and a cup of coffee that he takes occasional sips from. “How are you?” he asks at once, a worried look on his face already.</p>
<p>“Better, I think.” Harry forces himself to meet his eyes. “I don’t know what to say… Thank you, for last night.”</p>
<p>Michel puts his quill down and regards him with such a gentle, honest glance it makes Harry feel even more terrible for nearly taking advantage of him. “I want you to know that I’m there for you if you need it. For anything.” When Harry only nods, he continues, hesitant, “Do you know what you’re going to do?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Harry says softly. “I have to go see him and tell him I can’t continue the lessons. It’s not good for me.”</p>
<p>“I think it’s a good idea. You have to take care of yourself, Harry.”</p>
<p>Harry nods resolutely. “Thank you again.”</p>
<p>As he leaves Michel’s quarters determinedly, Harry can’t help thinking that if he can manage to get over this, to forget about Snape, maybe he can give it another try with Michel. It isn’t right to consider him a second choice, but that’s not what it’s about exactly. He needs good things in his life. And Michel is good. Harry heads to his own quarters first, where he takes a shower and changes into clean clothes. Then he calls onto a house elf for a cup of coffee and drains it fast, hoping to clear his head and chase away the last remnants of sleep and confusion. Then he goes to find Snape.</p>
<p>The door to his office is open, but he isn’t there.</p>
<p>“He’s never here on Sundays,” Gabrielle tells him. “And rarely on Saturdays. It’s his alone time. Harry…” she mumbles then, so that Javier, who’s busy working at his desk, doesn’t overhear, “is it true, about you and Professor Follet? One of the supervisors saw you two last night and… neither of you were at breakfast this morning. People have been talking–”</p>
<p>“Nothing happened,” Harry snaps. “People should mind their own fucking business. I’m sorry,” he adds at once, at the shocked look on Gabrielle’s face. “Thanks, I’ll look for Snape in his quarters.”</p>
<p>He’s too tired to be furious, but he is deeply, deeply ashamed. Don’t people have anything better to do than gossip about others? Is there no possible privacy in this bloody school?</p>
<p>Although he’s never been, he knows Snape’s quarters are on the third floor, and he doesn’t hesitate to knock when he reaches the door.</p>
<p>It will be okay. He’s walked into the forest, knowing he was walking to his death. This will not kill him, only make him better. Like extracting a rotten tooth that’s been inflicting torture for too long.</p>
<p>It’s obvious from the moment Snape answers that he’s in a terribly foul mood. “Go away, Potter,” he snaps before trying to close the door again, but Harry sticks his foot out. “Potter–” the man warns.</p>
<p>“It’ll only take a minute,” Harry insists.</p>
<p>Snape sighs harshly then finally opens the door to let him in. “You have <em>exactly</em> one minute. I have better things to do.”</p>
<p>Harry nods as he enters, shoving his hands into his pockets. He swallows around the knot in his throat, looking around briefly at the familiarity and yet strangeness of the rooms.</p>
<p>“Out with it!” the man snaps with such viciousness in his voice that Harry almost wants to bolt, but he doesn’t. He <em>needs</em> to do this.</p>
<p>He turns to the man resolutely and announces, “I want to stop the French lessons.”</p>
<p>Before he can even say anymore, Snape sneers at him. “Giving up already, are you? I’m not surprised.”</p>
<p>Harry sighs. He should have known this was how it would go. “I’m not giving up. I can still learn, but it’s just too much. I need time to–”</p>
<p>“Are the lessons hindering your love life, Potter? Is that it?” the man drawls nastily.</p>
<p>Harry stares at him, heart pounding in his chest, from anger and something else. Of course, Snape has heard about Michel. He’s listened to the rumours, just like everyone else. He knows that Harry went to Michel’s quarters last night, and that neither of them was at breakfast this morning… “That’s not what this is about–” he begins, but Snape laughs harshly, bitterly.</p>
<p>“Spare me your excuses. If you want to stop so you can spend more time with that… that arrogant … smirking imbecile, fine! Do what you will! What a bloody waste of time!” he hisses, more to himself than to Harry.</p>
<p>“It’s not about Michel!” Harry half shouts. “It’s about <em>you</em>!”</p>
<p>“Me? Oh, am I not adequate enough a teacher for the great Harry Potter?” Snape barks, looking absolutely livid. “Do you have any idea all the efforts I’ve put into those lessons? <em>Do you?</em>”</p>
<p>“I know you did, and I’m–”</p>
<p>“I thought you had changed, Potter! But you’re just the same as you’ve always been. A selfish, ungrateful–”</p>
<p>“I <em>can’t</em> see you anymore!” Harry says, his voice breaking. <em>Don’t cry! Don’t you bloody start crying, you idiot</em>. “It kills me!”</p>
<p>It must be the desperation in his voice that stops Snape’s ranting and silence falls on them suddenly. Harry’s heart is beating so loudly he can hear it pounding in his own ears. This isn’t good. A silent Snape is never a good thing. Harry braces himself for the hateful yelling like someone braces for impact upon seeing a car swerve their way.</p>
<p>But when the man speaks again, his voice is soft. Not dangerous, but tentative. “What are you saying?”</p>
<p>“You know!” Harry gasps out, trying to catch his breath. “You <em>know</em> what I’m saying.”</p>
<p>Snape is peering at him as if faced with an enigma, with something mysterious and perplexing that he desperately wants to unfold.</p>
<p>“I need to stop the lessons,” Harry says softly, unable to avert the man’s eyes. “You’re an amazing teacher, and I’ve learned so much, and I’m grateful but... But I can’t anymore… I can’t be around you. I thought I could do it. I thought I was over it… Six bloody years… I thought I was over you. But I’m not. And I feel like I’m dying every time I see you. It’s nothing against you. It’s me… I can’t do this to myself anymore.”</p>
<p>“Six years, Potter…” the man mutters, staring at him fixedly.</p>
<p>“I know! I know it’s ridiculous, and if you’re going to mock me for it–”</p>
<p>Snape takes a step forward. “I’m not mocking you,” he says in a rush, a soft breath of voice uttered with urgency.</p>
<p>Harry cannot look away from his eyes, because something has changed in them. There is a glimmer in the dark irises. His heart gives a lurch because Snape has <em>never</em> looked at him this way before. It’s only when Harry is alone in the darkness, when he closes his eyes and sees the man’s face that Snape looks at him like this. Never in the light of day, never in real life. It’s always been imagined.</p>
<p>“I thought…” Snape begins, taking another step forward. “I thought you had moved on. I thought you couldn’t possibly… still… want me…”</p>
<p>“I do,” Harry says in a strangled voice. “Even more.”</p>
<p>“And Follet?”</p>
<p>Harry shakes his head. “There’s… only you.” Snape is close now, and Harry looks up into his face, the breath catching in his throat with every inhale. “There’s only been you… for a long time,” he mumbles.</p>
<p>His mouth is open even before Snape’s lips reach his own, and he gasps into the kiss as if he’d been deprived of oxygen all these years.</p>
<p>The man kisses like he does everything else, fiercely and intensely, his hands coming up to hold Harry, splaying on his lower back to pull him closer and closer, to hold him in place. Harry grips onto the man’s shirt hard, afraid that Snape might change his mind and push him away, send him flying across the room, reject him again like he did all those years ago. Snape’s tongue is warm and soft. He tastes like coffee and blackberry jam, and the woodsy smell of his cologne fills Harry’s lungs with every harsh, panting breath he takes.</p>
<p>Six years. Six years of dreaming of this, and now it’s finally happening. Or is it? Is it even real? It <em>feels</em> real. Snape’s lips are real. Snape’s body is real and solid and present, pressed against his own <em>at last</em>.</p>
<p>“Severus…” Harry mumbles against the man’s lips, because he needs to say it. Because it needs to be heard, to be acknowledged. This isn’t Snape anymore. This isn’t his former teacher who snarled at him and insulted him. This man is someone else entirely.</p>
<p>Severus pulls back gently, breaking the embrace, and fear pulses in Harry’s heart. But the man doesn’t push him away, only brings his hands up to caress Harry’s face. Then he slips his fingers through Harry’s hair in a soothing caress and Harry moans softly at the tender gesture, feeling tears well up in his eyes. Severus cradles his head like it’s something infinitely precious, and the way he looks at Harry now is so perfect, so exactly what Harry has always wanted, always craved. A soft, involuntary sob escapes his throat.</p>
<p>“Do you mean this?” Harry asks, barely a breath between their lips. “If you don’t mean it, I’ll…” <em>I’ll die,</em> he thinks<em>. I’ll die if this isn’t real.</em></p>
<p>Severus smiles softly down at him, and it’s the most beautiful thing Harry has ever seen. “I don’t do things I don’t mean, Potter… <em>Harry</em>,” he corrects himself.</p>
<p>Harry arches forward, kisses him again. Severus’ hands move to press to his back once more, and Harry leans into them, seeking warmth, feeling so safe in their hold he wants to sob with relief. He seeks the man’s mouth urgently, unwilling to let it go now that he’s finally, finally found it. And if there was ever any fear in his heart that Severus might not want this, might not really mean this, it all evaporates, because the man kisses back as fervently. And Harry feels it into his bones, that Severus wants him just as badly.</p>
<p>How long has it been for him? Harry wonders. How long has he been suffering? Was it as painful for him as it was for Harry? How did it feel to watch Harry from afar, to see him laughing with others and constantly seek their company and never his own? It all makes sense now, the lurking about, the staring. Severus wasn’t trying to spy on him or make sure he was doing his job properly. He was just trying to drink his fill. He probably couldn’t stop himself if he tried. Like Harry couldn’t stop himself from visiting the hospital and bringing the flowers.</p>
<p>“I want you…” Severus mumbles against his skin, his lips moving to suck and kiss at Harry’s neck, his hands slipping under Harry’s jumper to caress the skin of his back, of his ribs.</p>
<p>“Yes…” Harry moans, tilting his head back, wanting more, wanting everything. <em>You can have me,</em> he means. <em>I’m yours. I’ve been yours all this time</em>…</p>
<p>Severus’ apartments are on the other side of the teachers’ wing, and there is no view of the lake or the town from here. In the bedroom, there is a wide window overlooking the cliffs.</p>
<p>“Your bed is bigger than mine,” Harry remarks as they urgently peel their clothes off.</p>
<p>Severus smirks. “That’s the one you get when you’re fluent in French,” he rasps before launching to kiss him again.</p>
<p>Harry laughs into his mouth, and they fall against each other on the bed, skin to skin, arching and eager for touch. Severus pins him down, mouth sucking at his neck and chest, their bare cocks touching, sending shivers through Harry’s whole body.</p>
<p>“Fuck…” he hisses, grasping handfuls of Severus’ hair as the man’s mouth attacks one of his nipples, sucking it greedily, grazing it with teeth. “<em>Yes</em>…” he moans, breath catching in his throat. “Touch me…”</p>
<p>Mouth never leaving his skin, Severus drags his fist up Harry’s cock, swipes his thumb over the head. Harry lets out a broken gasp, hips rising off the bed. He wants this man so much it hurts, pain shooting along his spine, through his limbs.</p>
<p>“Yes…” he says again. “<em>Yes</em>…” He cannot stop saying it. He’s dreamt of this so many times, waking with a choked gasp, searching for the ghostly caresses that lingered and then vanished.</p>
<p>Severus pulls away, and Harry unknots his fingers from the man’s hair reluctantly, watching him push to his knees. Their eyes meet. The afternoon sun fills the room, casting a beautiful golden glow on Severus’ skin and Harry reaches out to touch him, pressing his palm over the man’s heart. He can feel the pulse, the rapid pumping of blood.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Harry says again, to the unspoken question. <em>Fuck me. Take me. I’m yours entirely.</em></p>
<p>Severus doesn’t need more prompting. He fetches his wand from where it’s fallen on the floor with his clothes, and he casts a quick lubrication spell on Harry, who gasps at the feeling and immediately wraps his legs around the man’s waist, nearly trembling with anticipation. Severus casts another spell on his own cock and discards the wand, stroking himself firmly. Then he curls one hand around Harry’s bare thigh, finding Harry’s wet hole with his fingers, pressing inside gently. “Yes?” he asks, eyes dark and lips swollen from their frantic kisses.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Harry moans again, pushing back. “It’s okay,” he slurs, lost in the pleasure already. “I can take it.”</p>
<p>He locks his ankles around Severus’ waist as the man presses his cock inside in shallow trusts. He clutches at him with fingers and hands and arms and thighs, afraid that it might all be a dream and dissolve into thin air.</p>
<p>“Yes…” He gasps the word, long and wet, into the skin of Severus’ shoulder. “So good.”</p>
<p>“Fuck,” Severus rasps, thrusting forward fully, so deep Harry lets out a harsh sound, either a moan or a sob, he can’t tell. He hears nothing but Severus’ panting breaths into his ear and the heavy pounding of his own heart.</p>
<p>“Harder…” Harry rasps, gripping onto his shoulders, fingers digging in hard as Severus pounds into him. There’s nothing else in this world but the hard, soft heat of Severus’ cock inside him. “<em>Yes</em>,” he moans, head falling back on the pillow as the pleasure builds up, clenching around Severus’ cock every time it hits his prostate, making the man moan brokenly.</p>
<p>Severus curls his hands under Harry’s body to hold him, cradling his shoulder blades, propping him up slightly. The shift changes the angle of his thrusts and Harry moans, high-pitched and helpless, unable to stop the sounds. He wants to touch himself, but he doesn’t want to let go of Severus, doesn’t want to stop holding him. His cock is heavy and throbbing between them, the friction bringing him closer and closer to the edge.</p>
<p>“Yes…” he manages between two choked breaths. Almost as soon as the word passes his lips, he feels himself clamping down, squeezing around Severus, moaning long and loud as he comes, holding tightly onto the man, afraid to let go.</p>
<p>Severus lets out a deep, raw moan, thrusting hard and deep. He comes shortly after, burying his face in Harry’s neck, panting wetly against his throat.</p>
<p>Harry holds him tighter still as they both find their breaths, eyes shut, fingers coming up to bury themselves into Severus’ hair, grazing his scalp. Severus leans into the caress, resting there for a time before tilting his head up and kissing Harry on the jaw, soft and lazy. “You’re beautiful,” he mumbles tiredly.</p>
<p>Harry watches in silence as Severus fetches his wand again to cast a quick cleaning spell on them and on the bedcovers. He feels shy now, vulnerable and afraid. What do you do when you’ve finally been given what you wanted for so long? What do you say? <em>Thank you?</em></p>
<p>“Come here,” Severus says as he lays back down, opening his arms invitingly. Harry moves closer, pressing against him, resting his head in the crook of his neck and shoulder. The man’s arms wrap around him almost naturally. “Are you hurt?” he asks, the whisper barely audible, almost fearful.</p>
<p>“I’m okay,” Harry mumbles.</p>
<p>He’s completely lost now. And he feels like Severus might be a little lost as well. Maybe they should have talked first, before falling into bed, though the idea seemed impossible at the time. There was too much longing, too much waiting and wanting.</p>
<p>“You’ve changed so much,” Severus says softly.</p>
<p>Harry lifts his head to meet his gaze, curious. “Good or bad?”</p>
<p>Severus scoffs, his mouth curling into a smile. “Good. <em>Obviously</em>. Since we are here like this.”</p>
<p>Harry chuckles, resting his head back into the same spot, wrapping his arms tightly around Severus’ waist as the man’s fingers trace patterns on the skin of his back.</p>
<p>It’s a long time before Severus breaks the silence again. “I lied to you about the translation spell.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>Severus sighs heavily. “It’s horrible, but adequate. And the headmistress says it’s enough. I offered to teach you because…” he trails off, swallows, “because I wanted to see you. I wanted an excuse. When I saw you that day, during your lesson–”</p>
<p>“You mean when you rudely spied on me?” Harry asks, earning a light pinch to his bottom as revenge.</p>
<p>“When I came to <em>observe</em>,” Severus protests. “You were so different, so confident, so… so beautiful. I didn’t know how to act around you. And you were so hostile,” he adds with a chuckle.</p>
<p>Harry clears his throat, trying to dislodge the painful knot that’s settled there. “I was afraid.”</p>
<p>“I know.” Severus’ fingers come up to tangle in his hair, massaging the back of his head slowly. “I’ve wanted you since that day. Although it took a while for me to realise what it was.”</p>
<p>“I’ve wanted you… for a long time,” Harry rasps, his voice weak and fearful.</p>
<p>Silence settles on them again. He feels that Severus wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Then he takes Harry’s head in both hands, tilting it so their eyes meet. “Say it again,” he demands.</p>
<p>Harry blinks at him. “What?”</p>
<p>“What you said that day, in the hospital wing.”</p>
<p>Harry peers into the man’s eyes searchingly, the breath catching in his throat. “Why?”</p>
<p>“Because I won’t be the first to say it, Potter,” he says softly.</p>
<p>Harry’s heart is a trembling, hopeful thing that flutters in his chest like a bird. “I’m in love with you,” he mutters.</p>
<p>“Well…” Severus’ lips curl into a smile, the sunlight highlighting his face the same way the movie projector did that night. <em>If you smile, it’s to invade me better</em>. “As it happens, so am I.”</p>
<p>Their lips find each other again. And then again. And as they lie there, intertwined, Harry feels warm and safe and serene. He closes his eyes, listening to Severus’ steady heartbeat, to the way his breath comes in and out of his body. And he knows, with absolute certainty, that at last, the wandering is over.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>- 4 -</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>epilogue</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After leaving Hogwarts, Severus went to Germany first. There, he rented a little basement flat in Munich and he tried to heal. Getting discharged so early hadn’t been his greatest idea, and the travelling had taken its toll, so he had no choice but to take it easy for a time. If he hadn’t been so stubborn, Severus would have put himself on complete bed rest, but that wasn’t happening. He paid the teenaged son of one of his Muggle neighbours to bring him groceries once a week, and he only ever left the flat to go to the library. He took out books after books after books. For six months, all he really did was read and eat and sleep. He took to feeding a stray cat for a while, but one day the ungrateful little creature vanished and never came back.</p>
<p>He thought a lot about Harry as well – or <em>Potter</em>, as he knew him then – trying to muster a vague notion of what could possibly have prompted a love confession out of him. Yes, at first, he thought Harry was mocking him. He thought it was a trap of some sort, a scheme designed to humiliate him. He had no romantic feelings for Harry back then, but he’d grown fond of him and appreciated his company. Harry was intelligent and funny in a way that Severus had never been able to appreciate before, with the threat of Voldemort and imminent death hovering over him constantly, with their strained relationship as hated teacher and insolent student. Harry was young and kind, good-looking and brave and loved by everyone. Severus was old and moody and rude and despised by all, even after his true allegiances were confirmed. That Harry would want <em>him</em> of all people made no sense. It <em>had</em> to be a trap. It was the only explanation. And so, Severus lashed out, feeling betrayed and hurt. He had come to trust this boy, had allowed him a place into his life, if only for a few months, and he was being humiliated and mocked in return.</p>
<p>Then it occurred to him, as Harry stuttered helplessly, trying to explain, that perhaps he was being honest about the whole thing. The boy was a terrible liar after all, and Severus had always been able to see right through him. Somehow, this bold honesty made the whole thing worse. Severus was enraged at being put in such a position, at being caught so unaware. He thought he had seen everything during his thirty-eight years on earth, but a love confession was not something he was prepared to receive, especially not coming from this boy. The last thing he wanted was for Harry to linger about, to give up everything in order to pursue his affections, because Merlin knows Harry was stubborn enough to do something of the sort. And Severus simply couldn’t let that happen. Harry Potter deserved a good, perfect life. With the perfect job and the perfect wife. No matter how Severus felt about it personally, no matter all the advice he had given the boy about using his head and not falling into expectations. Better fall into expectations than give everything up for the sake of poor, miserable him.</p>
<p>He hadn’t really been able to think things through on the spot, but threatening the boy and saying all those horrible things before running away seemed to him the only possible way to manage the situation at the time. He hadn’t left just because of Harry, though. He had been planning it for a while. The thought of a new life, away from everyone he’d ever known, was an idea he had been entertaining for years. Only, he couldn’t do it before then, because he needed to spy on the Dark Lord and to help Dumbledore with his scheming. But he had been ready to do it as soon as the opportunity presented itself, and when Harry provided him with the appropriate situation, he made his move.</p>
<p>It was only much later, in the small flat in Munich, that it first occurred to him that he might have overreacted. As time went by and he didn’t have much else to do other than think about the past, Severus realised how terribly he had acted towards Harry. The boy had poured his heart out to him and he’d been nearly violent in his response. How Harry had managed to gather enough courage to say those words, Severus could not even imagine.</p>
<p>He had been more upset than he was willing to show it when Harry had stopped visiting him. Two full weeks with no sign of him, when he usually came twice, sometimes three times a week. No one else ever came to see him, except Pomfrey, because it was her job, and Minerva sometimes, if only to check he was still alive. But more than anything, Severus was upset because he had been expecting it and Harry’s prolonged absence was only proving him right. He had known that at some point Harry would forget about him and return to his own life, with his beautiful girlfriend and his supporting friends and his adoring fans. Yes, Severus had known it would all come to an end eventually and that he would be left on his own with no one to talk to.  </p>
<p>He had never been one to let himself be openly vulnerable, and the combination of trying to hide how upset he was at the lack of visits but also how relieved at seeing Harry return, and trying to protect himself from the unexpected love confession that simply <em>had</em> to be a trap, created an explosion of nasty insults. As time went by and he had enough distance to analyse the events again, Severus came to regret his actions. But it was too late to make amends, not that he was the sort of man to do such a thing anyway. And he would probably never see Harry Potter again, so what use was there ruminating these events?</p>
<p>He had been in Munich for six months when he returned to potion-making. It wasn’t entirely by choice, mostly out of financial concerns, but Severus wasn’t opposed to it. Going back to this old habit felt like coming home, in a way – if he ever really had a home. It felt like returning to himself, to a semblance of normality. He assembled a sort of makeshift laboratory in his cramped kitchen and made potions that he had to sell discreetly because he wasn’t exactly licensed in Germany. It would have been easy to apply for a license – he had enough credentials to obtain one – but Severus didn’t want to be traced back here. Not that he was in hiding exactly, but he didn’t want to be found. And even though he’d been cleared of all of the charges usually held against known Death Eaters, the Germans took that sort of thing very seriously and he expected that any contact with the ministry there would result in trouble. He just wanted to be left in peace, so he settled for cautious illegal activities.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, there were errands he couldn’t ask his Muggle neighbour to perform for him, such as visits to the apothecary. Severus always tried to make those sparse, waiting until he was almost completely out of ingredients before venturing to Herr Eiber’s shop. Overall, Severus was not impressed with the supplies and never failed to let the owner know about it. Those unwanted remarks rapidly sparked a feud, though the man didn’t dare refuse him service because Severus spent quite a lot of gold every time. There were other shops in the city, but they all belonged to Eiber’s family, and word spread amongst the owners about this nasty and critical man who kept questioning the quality of the ingredients. Ultimately, their disagreements grew to the point that Severus decided to avoid shopping in Munich altogether. He feared that one of the shopowners – or a combination of them – might inquire about him and that he would be discovered selling potions without a license.</p>
<p>It was for that reason that Severus started travelling all the way to Nuremberg for his supplies. He settled on Eckbert Kaspar’s shop, near the magical university, and he never regretted it. The selection was better, the quality far superior, and the old owner quiet and sullen. It was also in that shop, on a fine Saturday morning in May, that Severus happened on Augustine Salomon.</p>
<p>He had met her before, years ago, at some conference in London, where they bonded over their mutual disdain of a young up-and-comer potioneer barely out of York University who was dead-set on creating a cure for lycanthropy. Salomon was sort of a legend in the field, and Severus had read nearly all her research papers. She had been teaching at Beauxbâtons for twenty-five years and that day, when they met in Nuremberg, as she was looking for some good boomslang skin, she mentioned that she wanted to retire this year. <em>If</em> they managed to find her a good replacement, she said, because she didn’t want to leave them in a fix. But <em>he</em> had taught at Hogwarts before, hadn’t he? Would he be interested?</p>
<p>Severus’ initial reaction was to laugh and say, <em>Never in a million years</em>. He was done with teaching, he assured her. But then they went for coffee and she told him about the school and all the perks of working there, and he found himself comparing every aspect of it to the miserable years he had spent at Hogwarts and wondering what it would be like to receive help and respect for once. Against all odds, he ended up showing interest and giving Salomon his address. The official offer from the Ministry arrived a few days later, accompanied by a letter from the headmistress.</p>
<p>The transition back into teaching was smooth as can be. His assistants that first year were both former students, brilliant young men who were glad to help him adapt to life at Beauxbâtons. The students were clever and dedicated and inquisitive. Severus’ quarters were perfectly adequate and comfortable, and his schedule offered plenty of free time. The biggest perk, in Severus’ opinion, apart from the assistants, was the supervisors employed to patrol the school. There was no need for Severus to roam the hallways after curfew looking for sneaky, rule-breaking little brats here. All he had to do was teach.</p>
<p>It was five years of bliss. And then came Harry.</p>
<p>When he saw Harry again that day, six years after running away from him, Severus was shocked by what he found. Standing in the shadows of the sun-drenched classroom while Harry gave a brilliant lecture on magical theory, Severus could only stare in wonder. Thank Merlin he was hidden and that no one could see the look on his face. This wasn’t the boy he thought he knew nor the one he expected. Harry Potter had grown into a confident and brilliant young man. He was older and wiser and intensely beautiful. His reaction when Severus finally approached him, however, was expected. He was still hurt by the way they parted, and he was defensive and cold. Severus did not hold this against him – he would have acted the same under these circumstances.</p>
<p>Since it was obvious that Harry wanted nothing to do with him, Severus decided to keep his distance. It wasn’t as easy as he had expected though, and he found himself loitering around, going out of his way to see Harry, observing him from a distance, well-aware that he was being less than subtle about it. He watched as Harry grew more comfortable around the students and the other teachers, as he became friendly with everyone. Everyone except him. That just wasn’t going to do. That’s why Severus ceaselessly bothered the headmistress with his complaints about Harry’s translation spell. That’s why he ended up offering the French lessons.</p>
<p>He wonders, sometimes, how long he would have lasted if Harry hadn’t shown up to his quarters that morning, if he hadn’t admitted that his feelings hadn’t changed. Or worse yet, if Harry’s feelings <em>had</em> changed. Where would they be now? Odds are that Harry would be waking up with Follet every morning. And Severus knows with certainty that he would be alone. And for that reason, he’s promised himself he will never take any of this for granted.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Severus wakes up first, slowly struggling out of the depths of sleep. Pale autumn light streams in through the drapes, and a draught from an opened window somewhere in the house seeps into the room, but the bed is warm and soft and absolute perfection. Harry is lying half on top of his body, as per usual. He groans when Severus shifts to look at the time, but then sighs softly as fingers caress his cheek, then the side of his ear.</p>
<p>“Twenty minutes,” Severus announces, voice still heavy with sleep, “or we’ll be late.”</p>
<p>“Mmmm…” Harry grumbles. He lifts his hand from under the sheets, where it was resting on Severus’ chest, and tries to press his palm over Severus’ lips, but he misses and awkwardly pats the underside of his chin instead. “Shhh…” he slurs, “…sleep.”</p>
<p>Severus chuckles, bringing Harry’s hand to his mouth to kiss the knuckles under his wedding band.</p>
<p>He watches silently as Harry dozes off again, examining the features he knows so well by now. Dark eyelashes on pale cheeks, that curl of hair falling on his forehead, the adorable pout that always forms on Harry’s lips when he sleeps. Slowly, he moves the hand that was buried in Harry’s hair down to caress his naked shoulder. How perfectly it fits there, at the intersection of bones.</p>
<p>When he thinks about his life and all the things that happened, about where he started and where he thought he would end up, Severus still cannot believe it. Out of all the different paths he could have taken, he never thought he’d end up <em>here</em>. He never thought he’d be married to James Potter’s son. Except Harry is not James Potter’s son, not really. Harry is <em>Harry</em>. With Harry’s eyes – his own, not Lily’s – and Harry’s laugh and Harry’s smile.</p>
<p>Sometimes, Severus wonders if maybe he died that day in the Shack, and this is all some sort of imagined, fantasy afterlife. Or if maybe he never woke up from the snakebite and is lying in a coma somewhere, stuck in a long and vivid fever dream. Except he doesn’t have that sort of imagination. And if there <em>is</em> life after death, <em>his</em> wouldn’t be so peaceful and flawless.</p>
<p>He thought he had lost the right to any sort of happiness. He never thought he’d survive the war, and when he did, he was convinced he would spend the rest of his days paying for every bloody mistake he’s ever made. He knows he doesn’t deserve Harry, and he knows Harry would be better off without him, but Severus is too selfish to let him go. Not that Harry <em>would </em>go. He’s too stubborn for that, and against all odds, completely and utterly in love with Severus.</p>
<p>It’s been three years, almost to the day, since Harry came to see him in his quarters to announce that he wanted to stop the French lessons. Three years since they finally found each other. Severus thought that things would change, that feelings would dwindle. Because that’s what happens, isn’t it? People fall in love and then they fall out of it, constantly. Inevitably. But it hasn’t happened to them. For Severus, it only keeps growing. He loves Harry fiercely – more than he thought it was possible for him to love anyone. So much so that he’s turned into a complete sap, and he’s aware of it, though he does his best to hide it, of course. Severus Snape has a reputation to maintain.</p>
<p>Last year, shortly after Severus proposed, they bought a house together. Harry desperately wanted to live in Nuée – the most beautiful place in the world, as he calls it – and Severus, who now lives to make him happy, was pleased to oblige. It’s a charming three-storey house, built in the same medieval style as the other homes in town, but a little bit isolated, tucked against the hills and half hidden by the most enormous lilac tree that’s ever been known to men. There are little stairs that lead down to the lake on one side and an overgrown garden in the back protected by the cover of the trees. They stay at school during the week, now sharing some of the bigger quarters in the teachers’ wing, because it’s easier than Apparating back and forth every day, and lodging comes with their posts anyway. But they come home every weekend, sleeping in and cooking dinner and working in the garden.</p>
<p>They’ve been married for two months now. This part of their life is still bright and shiny and new, and Severus prays to whatever deity might exist that it will remain this way. When he is old and tired and has forgotten nearly everything, he knows he will still remember that August afternoon in Provence. The smell of the flowers and the warm breeze. Harry’s shining eyes and bright smile and the way his voice broke into a whisper when he tried to say his vows, the words so soft Severus alone could hear them. <em>I want to grow old with you</em>, he thought later that night, when Harry tiredly rested his cheek on his shoulder while they danced. <em>I am happy</em>, he whispered into Harry’s ear, later still, when they held each other in the dark.</p>
<p><em>My husband</em>, he often thinks to himself when he sees Harry. Whether they’re alone together or he happens to catch a glimpse of him across a crowded room. <em>My husband</em>. And he says the words often too, as often as possible. When he speaks to others, it’s never <em>Professor Potter</em>, or even <em>Harry</em>. It’s always, <em>My husband</em>. It should be embarrassing, but it isn’t. Severus is greedy and proud – he wants everyone to know.</p>
<p>“Harry,” Severus says gently. “You have to wake up, love. We’ll be late.”</p>
<p>Harry groans, burying his face deeper into Severus’ neck. “I quit,” he mumbles grumpily. “Let me sleep.”</p>
<p>Severus pushes his fingers through the mess of Harry’s hair, tugging at the locks slightly. “Come on, lazy brat. You have the fifth years this morning.” He sighs when Harry only grumbles. “I knew we should have returned to the school last night. You never want to leave this bed.”</p>
<p>“Cause there’s you in it,” Harry says slowly, pressing a messy, sleepy kiss to Severus’ throat.</p>
<p>Severus scoffs. “I am always in the bed, be it here or at school. You have no excuse.”</p>
<p>“Is it a crime then? Wanting to spend time with my husband?” Harry asks, finally shifting to look at Severus, green eyes still clouded with sleep, but lips curved into this tender smile they form every morning. He grins then. “You love it when I say that, don’t you? <em>My husband</em>.”</p>
<p>Severus cups Harry’s face in both hands. “I do,” he says softly.</p>
<p>“My husband,” Harry whispers, leaning in to kiss him on the nose and then on the lips. “My husband,” he repeats over and over, showering him in kisses.</p>
<p>Severus’ mornings now are filled with smiles and laughter, with warm sheets and soft skin. Every morning is good, every day is good because Harry is there. <em>I want to grow old with you</em>, Severus thought on their wedding day, and he thinks it still nearly every day. No one in the world has ever looked at him the way Harry does. Severus’ life has been a series of crippling disappointments and irreversible mistakes, until this. This is the first good thing Severus has ever had.</p>
<p>Life is sweet and perfect. France is his home now. This house is home.</p>
<p>Harry is home.</p>
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<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Soundtrack of songs mentioned and played:</p>
<p>Serge Fiori – Il suffirait de presque rien (In the café, during the opening scene)<br/>Johnny Hallyday – Souvenirs souvenirs (In the apartment when Harry comes home)<br/>Charles Aznavour – La Bohème (At the party)<br/>Charles Aznavour – Parce que tu crois (At the party)<br/>Dalida – Gigi l’amoroso (In the bistro in Nuée)<br/>Julio Iglesias – Hey (In Gabrielle's car)<br/>Claude Debussy – Arabesque No. 1 (Heard coming from the music room)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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